


this rough magic

by aholynight



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bipolar Disorder, Christmas Fluff, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Sexual Tension, lots of christmas ambiance, lots of gratuitous descriptions of sander's stupid perfect angel face, lots of quidditch, lots of robbe being the most lovable little hufflepuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aholynight/pseuds/aholynight
Summary: Though he’s a sixth-prefect and the newest member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, Muggleborn Robbe can still hardly believe that he’s made of magic.Sander is the seventh-year Gryffindor beater whose wild behavior and delinquent reputation precedes him.Though Robbe desperately wants to believe in the angel-faced boy he sees in front of him—and ignore the rumors of Sander’s devilish behavior—he’s not sure his heart can afford the risk.But when Sander and Robbe are left in a nearly-empty Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday, avoiding Sander might no longer be an option.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 328
Kudos: 968





	1. Chapter One

“You should try out.”

Robbe met Jens’ eyes in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Serious?”

“Why not?” said Jens, spinning the Quaffle on his finger. He came up behind Robbe at the mirror. “Afraid it’ll interfere with your duties?” he asked, a bit mockingly for Robbe’s taste, flicking at the prefect badge at Robbe’s chest. 

“No, but—Noor could get better, and then—”

“Noor doesn’t want to be Seeker anymore anyways. She told Britt. That fall spooked her. She’s declared her retirement.”

Robbe ran a hand through his hair, trying to look casual about the proposition, but he wasn’t. He’d always wanted to play Seeker. Always. And he was good at it—he was quick, he had the build for it, most of his friends were on the team anyways. Noor had beaten him at tryouts two years ago fair and square, but he’d always privately hoped for the opportunity to try again. 

“When are tryouts?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Robbe said incredulously. “There’s no chance I’ll be ready.”

“Come on—you might be rusty but there’s no one else even close.”

“What about the second or third years? You’ve seen them—they’re obsessed, they fly every chance they get.”

“And you’re a _sixth year prefect_ with loads of experience and your best friend is the _team captain_.”

“You shouldn’t give it to me just because you’re team captain,” said Robbe. “That’s not fair.”

“Ah, what’s fair?” said Jens, looking cheeky and disreputable and too much like the boy Robbe met all those years ago on the train, when Robbe got himself to King’s Cross all on his own, clutching a letter in his hand, still wondering if this was all some elaborate hoax, because he was Robbe, just Robbe, he couldn’t be _magic_ he was just a boy from nowhere and nothing, he was nobody special and _yet—_

He went to the station. Just to see. Just to make sure. A tall black-haired boy with his mother saw Robbe’s lost expression. He grinned at Robbe and said, “You read that right. Nine and three-quarters,” nodding at the creased paper in Robbe’s hand, the one he’d folded and opened and re-folded with shaking fingers for weeks on end. He jerked his head towards the wall and said, “I’m Jens, by the way,” beckoning Robbe to follow, and sure enough through the wall was a train and teenagers jinxing each other and parents kissing their children goodbye and it was _real it was all real—_

He had to use a secondhand wand and cauldron his first year. He wrote long detailed letters to his mother every week, explaining everything—they put a talking hat on his head that declared him a “Hufflepuff,” they don’t play football but a strange game called Quidditch with broomsticks, the professors are all scary but nice and they’ve helped him get his things, he’s what’s called a “Muggleborn” but there’s a few others like him—and at Christmas his first year he came home and showed her everything he was allowed: the sweets that jumped when you touched them, toys from the joke shop that Jens gave him, his wand, his books.

His first summer home his mother spent most hours in bed, and Robbe cooked their meals and did their dishes and made sure she took a bath at least a couple times a week. His second summer home she sat zombified in front of the television set, and Robbe paced listlessly around the house, reading and re-reading his letters from his friends, until one week Jens and Aaron and Moyo showed up and whisked him away for a long weekend at Jens’s summer house, where everything was magic. Robbe marveled at every self-stirring cup, every self-cleaning pot, everything he did by hand at home for he and his mom, everything he’d longed for those hot suffocating nights in the suburbs in front of the blue glow of a television set. His third and fourth and fifth summers he still came home—he loved his mama, he missed her, he wanted her to be better—but it was harder and harder to be away from the things that made Robbe feel like himself, the things that made him more than Robbe, just Robbe. 

Fifth year he made prefect, and Jens and Jana and Noor and Britt won Hufflepuff the Quidditch Cup, beating Gryffindor’s team for the first time since Robbe had been at Hogwarts. 

“You want to,” said Jens, “Come on, Robbe. You’ve been so good since you got prefect.”

“What are you trying to say—that I’m boring now?”

“You said it—not me.”

Robbe rolls his eyes, slapping Jens lightly on the cheek as he passed to gather his bag. “Fine. I’ll come.”

—

It’s windy for tryouts: November had come like a storm, all icy wind and the promise of snow. Their breath billowed out in front of them in shivering clouds. Robbe rubbed his hands together. Jana had her arm linked with his and was in the middle of telling him there was no point being nervous, he basically had the position already, when the team ground to a halt. 

The Gryffindor team was filing out of the locker room, looking sweaty and carefree, pushing each other, towels slung around their shoulders. A few of them exchanged good-natured jabs with Jens and Aaron: Robbe hung back with Jana, suddenly nervous. The Gryffindor team looked _strong._ Though Hufflepuff finally managed a win last year, it was hard-fought, and Gryffindor were the favorites to win this year. Robbe watched as Senne—the Gryffindor Team Captain—chatted with Jens, their heads bent close together. 

Behind Senne was a terrifying lineup of talented players, all seventh years, all of whom had been playing together for years: they were a well-oiled machine, all wordless communication and secret code languages and a sixth sense for each other’s impulses, the kind of team intimacy you can only get after years of playing together. The chasers—Keisha, Gill, Marie—had some of the best scoring records in the school’s history. Luka was a little bigger than most Seekers, but he had the fastest broom in the school. Senne was an expert Keeper. And everyone was terrified of their beaters. One of them, Max, was chatting up Jana, showing off some new bludger wound on his side that made Jana roll her eyes. Robbe looked around for the other beater. Britt was leaning against the lockers, the Quaffle under her arm, eyes narrowed at him, incensed. Robbe frowned, confused—maybe she was mad that Robbe was trying out for Noor’s position, though Jana had assured Robbe a hundred times on the walk down that Britt was fine with it—until he realized Britt wasn’t glaring at him, but someone over Robbe’s shoulder—

“There he is,” said Senne, loudly. “What were doing in there for so long, Driesen?”

“How detailed do you want me to be?” said a voice, laughing, much closer than Robbe expected.

Robbe jumped, spinning around—the voice belonged to a boy, a shirtless boy, with a towel around his neck and a bare torso that made Robbe’s brain short-circuit, a boy who winked at Senne and then looked right into Robbe’s eyes. 

His eyes were winter-green. 

Sander Driesen. The other Gryffindor beater. 

Robbe didn’t know Sander well—there weren’t a lot of opportunities for a sixth-year Hufflepuff to hang out with a seventh-year Gryffindor. But he did know a few things. He knew that last match Sander misjudged how hard he hit a bludger and ended up splitting Noor’s broom in half. He managed to break the worst of her fall, but Noor still broke her arm, and the fall scared her enough to take a break from Quidditch altogether. He knew that Sander and Britt had dated for most of last year, and now she despised him. He knew Sander spent a lot of time in detention. He knew all the rumors that swirled around him, most of them surely bullshit, the worst of them probably started by Britt herself: he was distantly related to the Malfoys, he was a Parseltongue, he was an illegal Animagus, he was a werewolf, he was part-Veela.

The Veela rumor was the only one Robbe had ever briefly considered: Sander was stupidly, stunningly, infuriatingly good-looking. The locker-room lights made a halo of his hair, white-blonde and tousled, damp from the showers. He was golden-skinned and angel-faced. His eyes glittered devilishly. 

Robbe’s throat worked, unable to swallow. Sander disappeared behind the lockers—changing, presumably. If Sander had noticed Britt’s death-glare, he did a good job pretending he didn’t. 

Robbe joined the rest of the Hufflepuffs changing into their Quidditch gear. He had an alright broom—a hand-me-down from Jens—and Quidditch gear that Milan, the Hufflepuff Head Boy, had bought him as a Christmas present last year. 

“Don’t let them psych you out,” Jens was saying, tossing a pair of socks in Robbe’s direction. 

“Huh?” said Robbe, tugging on his shirt.

“Your face, man,” said Jens, “You looked so dazed. The Gryffindors—look, they're tough, sure, but—”

Robbe tuned him out. A flash of white-blonde hair disappeared behind the row of lockers. 

A shoe hit Robbe in the arm, startling him. 

“What the fuck?” Robbe said.

“Are you even listening to me? You’re so spacey right now, man—”

Robbe listened half-heartedly to the rest of Jens speech as he finished getting dressed. The team filed out onto the Quidditch pitch. There were a crowd of other Hufflepuffs waiting, already dressed—mostly fourth and fifth year hopefuls, though Robbe counted at least two second-years he’d caught sneaking around on after-hours prefect patrols, and one first-year who almost set their common room on fire last weekend while trying to re-heat a cup of tea with shoddy charm work.

The Gryffindors were waiting in the stands. Milan was watching too, and Zoe, the sixth-year Gryffindor prefect, arm in arm with Senne. Further back was a huddle of Ravenclaws, including Yasmina, who gave Robbe a supportive thumbs up. Senne and the other Gryffindor players blew the Hufflepuff team a sarcastic kiss. Jens and Jana rolled their eyes and held up their middle fingers. 

A flash of silver hair caught Robbe’s eye. Sander jumped easily over a row of seats to join the rest of his team. He rested his arm on Senne’s shoulder and sent the Hufflepuffs a wave. Britt scowled, looking away. 

But Sander kept staring, undeterred, until Robbe realized the only one Sander could’ve been staring at was him. Robbe glanced around. Even far away, Sander’s gaze pinned him where he stood.

“Alright, here’s how this is gonna go,” said Jens, clutching his beater bat. He flourished it like a conductor and grouped the Seeker hopefuls into groups of three. Jana, Britt, and Hanna would try to score on Luca at the goalposts, and Jens and Aaron would release the bludgers to recreate the distracting chaos of an actual match. Meanwhile the groups of Seekers would hunt down the snitch in teams. Whichever team of three found it first would then move on to the second round.

Jens blew the whistle, and Robbe kicked off with his team: a fifth-year girl who’d almost failed her O.W.L.s last year and a sleepy-eyed third-year boy with a beat-up broom. Aaron zoomed past them, chasing down a bludger that had flown inches from Robbe’s ear. He spun around on his broom—it was an older Nimbus model, not great, but not terrible either—and rose about eye-level with the stands. 

Sander wasn’t looking at him any more. He had a hand clapped on Senne’s shoulder, and was laughing at something one of their Chasers said. 

Robbe frowned. His other group members hovered a little below him. One of them jerked their chin towards the goal posts, where Luca was hanging upside down, her wild curls everywhere. She swung upwards, righting herself, and launched the Quaffle back at Britt.

A glint of gold caught the light by the third hoop. Robbe dove for it. Wind bit at his cheeks, his stomach swooping. He could hear Jens and Aaron cheering behind him. The Snitch darted right, and Robbe chased it down, following its trail towards the field. 

It was mere feet from the grass when he made his leap. He went for it, toppling over the end of his broom. 

He collapsed on his back. The grass was cold and crunchy with ice, dampening his robes. 

Something struggled inside his fist. A smile broke across his face, relieved. He opened his fingers, just enough to see the little wings trying to beat free.

The team crowded around him, hugging him. Robbe shook them off, laughing. 

For the second round, Robbe and the two others were sent to hunt the Snitch without any distractions. The three of them kicked off the ground. There were even more people in the stands now, but Robbe found that head of blonde hair immediately. 

Ten minutes passed. Robbe followed a bird he’d mistaken for the snitch, to no avail. Every sign of movement in the air made his stomach jerk. Another ten. Robbe chased down the fifth-year girl when she went zooming across the field, but it was only a fallen leaf, carried on the wind. 

He rose up again, searching, trying to drown out the sounds of Jana, Jens, and Aaron cheering him on, or the mocking catcalls from the stands. 

Robbe looked again at Sander, who was staring at him with a look of deep concentration.

Robbe’s eyebrow knit, confused. Sander jerked his head to the left, towards the castle. Robbe shook his head. What was Sander doing? 

Sander’s eyebrows lifted meaningfully. Then he jerked his head to the left again, as emphatically as possible. 

Robbe turned to the left. Hovering at the tail end of the Quidditch pitch was an unmistakable orb of gold. 

He shot after it. The other two, who’d been watching Robbe like a hawk, took off after him. 

The Snitch rose upwards this time, higher and higher, so high he could begin to feel himself losing feeling in his fingers.

He closed both hands around the Snitch, clutching the broom so hard with his knees that his body shook with the effort.

But he’d done it. He could hear the crowd below erupt with cheers. He rolled off his broom onto his hands and knees as soon as he hit the ground, gasping for air, his eyes screwed shut, grateful to be on land again. Hands were clapping hard on his shoulders, congratulatory voices ringing in his ear, promises of butterbeer and fire whiskey rattling around Robbe’s skull.

He let Jens and Aaron pull him upright. He swayed on his feet, his eyes finally fluttering open. The first thing he saw across the pitch was a halo of white-blonde hair. 

Sander winked.

—

Robbe barely slept the night before his first match. He left the common room party early with the hope of getting a full night’s sleep. Instead he laid awake, listening to the sounds of Moyo singing loudly and drunkenly to some made-up Quidditch fight song, the lyrics getting raunchier and more ridiculous the longer the party went on. Around 1 AM the boys all stumbled into the room, tripping on open trucks and bed curtains, collapsing face-first onto their pillows, still clutching bottles by the neck. 

Sunlight began pouring into the room, rinsing the wooden floorboards in watery grey light. Robbe made himself a cup of tea and sat at the window, watching sun rays slowly pour across the grounds, which were lightly dusted with snow. In the distance, he could just barely make out a bleached blonde head emerging from the forest. 

It was unmistakably Sander. Robbe pressed his face against the window, nearly spilling his tea. What was Sander doing out there? Had he spent the night in the forest?

A crash of bed curtains ripped Robbe’s gaze from the window. Jens wobbled on his feet, scratching the back of his head. One socked foot was standing in a sticky puddle of spilled butterbeer.

“Ah, shit,” said Jens, pointing his wand half-heartedly at the stain. 

“Here,” said Robbe, shoving the tea at him, “you need this more than me.”

After a lot of hungover groaning, the boys made their way to the Great Hall. The rest of their team was already waiting for them at the Hufflepuff table—Jana looked just as hungover as Jens did. Britt was sprinkling berries over a bowl of oatmeal and insisting everyone eat their fill. 

Moyo was practicing his announcement introduction in a voice that was far too loud for everyone’s hungover state. Robbe picked listlessly at his toast, his stomach too knotted to eat.

“Nervous?” Jens said, piling more toast onto Robbe’s plate. “Go on, eat.”

Robbe forced himself to take another bite. 

“Look, it’s shit luck we got paired against Gryffindor for your first match. I’m not gonna bullshit you: it’s gonna be a rough one. Senne’s been pushing his team ruthlessly, and it’s working.”

This wasn’t helping Robbe’s nerves in the slightest. He pushed away the plate of toast. But Jens stared him down until Robbe begrudgingly started to eat again, rolling his eyes.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen: most likely Max and Sander are gonna go after you first. Luka’s the weak link on their team….honestly they should get rid of him by this point but you know Senne, he’s loyal to a fault—everyone knows its their beaters and chasers that win Gryffindor matches. Sander took out Noor last time. Now he’s gonna go after you. I’ll protect you best I can and send all the bludgers their way—last time I managed to get Max out, but Sander, he’s too good a flyer—he actually played Seeker for a year when Luka was too injured from that fight with the Slytherins, remember—?”

“And he’s fucking batshit, don’t forget that,” said Britt, shoving a glass of water at Robbe. “Drink,” she ordered.

“Who’s batshit?” said Robbe.

Britt gave him a pointed look. Of course she meant Sander. 

“What are we talking about?” Jana piped in, reaching out for Britt to shovel eggs and bacon onto her plate.

“We’re talking about the fact that Sander’s a fucking psycho,” said Britt. “He shouldn’t even be allowed to play after what he did to Noor.”

“What are you talking about?” said Jens, “He tried to _save_ her.”

“Yeah, after hitting her broom so hard it fucking _snapped_ —” Britt spat. 

“Hooch declared it fair,” said Jens, shrugging. “He’s a good beater.”

“He’s a fucking maniac is what he is,” said Britt, her spoon clanging angrily against her bowl. She shoved herself away from the table.

Jana made meaningful eye contact with Robbe across the table. ‘Still obsessed,’ she mouthed.

Robbe looked over at the Gryffindor table. Sander and the Gryffindor Chasers were throwing food into each other’s mouths. Robbe watched as a raspberry hit Sander square in the forehead. He launched a handful of blueberries back at them, then quickly put his hands in his lap after the sharp look McGonagall shot him, his face the picture of innocence. 

“What do you think?” Robbe murmured, nudging Jens with his elbow.

“Think about what?” 

“Sander,” said Robbe. 

Jens chewed a mouthful of eggs, considering. “I think Sander messed Britt up pretty bad. Some of her stories about him—man,” he said, shaking his head. “But then again, that’s Britt. She used to talk all kinds of shit about me.”

“Well,” said Robbe, “you did cheat on her.”

Jens shoved Robbe in the shoulder. 

“Who knows, man,” said Jens, once they’d stopped pushing each other, “I can only go by what I see. I know he’s a good beater, and Senne vouches for him one hundred percent.”

Maybe Robbe would ask Zoe what she thought of Sander. Since she was a Gryffindor prefect they spent a fair bit of time together, and he respected her opinion well enough.

Robbe looked back over at the Gryffindor table. 

His stomach jerked. Sander was already looking at him, his eyes dark over the rim of a teacup. Robbe looked away quickly, color flooding his cheeks. He felt hot all over. Maybe it was true what they said—that Sander was half-Veela. Robbe didn’t know what to think. All he’d ever heard about Sander were reports of his erratic behavior. His second year he got in trouble for releasing a bunch of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts back into the wild. Last year during a Quidditch match he hit a bludger so hard it nearly knocked out an entire row of first-years in the stands. He spent a month in detention during his fourth year after it was discovered he was keeping a pet snake under his bed—which is probably where the Parseltongue and Malfoy-relation rumors came from. Sander claimed he found it sick in the wild and was trying to nurse it back to health. 

But of all Sander’s bizarre whimsies and dalliances with deliquency, most notorious was this time last year, just before Christmas, when Sander disappeared for two weeks. Eventually he turned up in the Shrieking Shack. It was Senne who found him: Sander had been sleeping in a dusty tangle of bed curtains in a freezing bedroom, living off scraps from the Three Broomsticks. Senne brought him to the hospital wing. A week later he was released, his body as gaunt as a lone wolf’s, all ribs and hollows. Robbe could hazily recall seeing him in the Great Hall once everyone returned from Christmas holiday, Britt’s arms looped tight around Sander’s shoulders. Rumors circulated that the disappearance was Sander’s idea of a funny joke. 

“Alright, it’s time,” Jens announced, drumming on the table. Moyo and Aaron burst into another rendition of the terrible fight song from the night before, ushering all of Hufflepuff to their feet. 

The Great Hall erupted in activity—normally, Robbe would be with Amber, helping the other sixth-year prefect direct the first-years, but he felt too nervous to do anything but follow Jens out of the Hall across the grounds to the Quidditch pitch, trying to block out the sounds of Gryffindor’s thunderous rallying cries behind them.

“Ignore them,” Jens murmured in Robbe’s ear, “just focus on the Snitch. I’ll make sure nothing else touches you.”

Robbe and the rest of the team reviewed their game plan one last time, their heads bent close together, clutching each others’ hands tightly. Jens gave his usual encouraging speech, but Robbe could barely hear a word over it over the noise of the stands or the furious batter-ram of his own heartbeat.

Dazedly, they took position on the field. Robbe’s eyes found Sander—there was no point resisting the urge. He looked even more striking than usual: tightly focused, cool, almost arrogant. That morning in the Great Hall he was radiant, with a laugh as light and sweet as church bells, a face like an angel. Now, in the cold winter light of the Quidditch pitch, flanked by his team mates, there was something almost cruel about Sander’s beauty: he looked like a prince, merciless. 

Madame Hooch blew the whistle. All fourteen players shot skyward in unison. The wind blew too loud to hear, but Robbe could half-make out Moyo’s voice over the speakers, narrating the players’ every movement. 

Robbe flew higher than the others. Luka did the same. Robbe had seen this tactic enough: Luka wasn’t a good enough Seeker on his own. His strategy was to watch the other team’s Seeker, follow them once they’d found the Snitch, and then use his absurdly expensive broom to outfly them. Robbe figured he might be able to tire Luka out: he could pretend to see the Snitch close to the field, for example, and veer away quick enough that Luka might lose his grip. 

Suddenly, it was Luka who started barreling towards the opposite side of the field, towards the castle. 

Robbe shot after him, towards the Slytherin section. The Slytherins catcalled them: they weren’t fans of the Hufflepuffs, but they definitely hated the Gryffindors more. 

A glint of gold fluttered next to the Hogwarts flag. Robbe veered right faster than Luka. 

It didn’t take long for Luka to catch on. Robbe was quick though—as soon as the Snitch darted away, Robbe twisted down, throwing Luka off course. 

He righted himself quickly enough, but it had done the job: Luka looked shaken. 

Robbe glanced at the scoreboard. It was 30-20 to Hufflepuff. Britt zoomed past him looking determined, the Quaffle clenched tight under her arm. She headed towards the center hoop. Senne followed, watching her every move, but she faked him out and tossed it to Jana at the last second, who scored on the right hoop.

Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff section. Jens let out a whoop nearby. Robbe turned and saw him circling the Gryffindor section of the stands, right on Sander’s heels, chasing after a bludger.

A blur of movement flew past, nearly knocking Robbe off his broom. He righted himself shakily and looked up. 

It happened too fast. Max soared above him, dipping low, dangerously low, his arm outstretched.

Robbe heard the bludger before he saw it.

He ducked wildly, his broom lurching, unstable. 

His fingers began to slip. Robbe cried out. 

Just as he managed to get his grip, he heard another bludger soaring towards him.

Robbe had no time to think. He just dove. His broom was barreling towards the ground, his muscles lagging behind his brain, too slow to realize he was about to crash. The world spun: the sky was grass and ice and dirt, the ground a blue and endless horizon, the axis not a straight line but a swirling helix, sending Robbe plummeting into nothing.

He crashed. 

His vision stuttered—start-stop shards of color—his head a mess of sounds he couldn’t piece together into anything meaningful. He knew he was on the ground. He knew something wasn’t right, something he couldn’t quite place—oh yes, pain. That was pain. 

He couldn’t move his arm.

One eye opened. Then another. Faces were crowded in front of him, talking over one another. There were fingers in his air. A whisper in his ear, gentle and sweet. 

The last thing Robbe saw was a halo of hair, the color of ice. A face like an angel.

Then his vision went dark.

—

A shaft of moonlight fanned across the floor. Robbe’s eyes fluttered open. It was dark outside: the hospital wing was all shadows and starlight, a candlelight flame undulating in the drafty high-beamed hall. He sat up, painfully. 

The first thing he saw was his arm, mummified in bandages. Robbe’s head fell back against the pillows. The pain was muted now: whatever magic Pompfrey worked on him was running its course.

His bedside table was littered with candy and cards and his friend’s empty tea cups and beer bottles. They must’ve spent the entire evening with him. He spied Milan’s unmistakable scrawl on a giant heart-shaped card, the letters marching across the page in swirling patterns, perfumed with his overbearing cologne. Robbe picked up a chocolate bar—Jana’s favorite kind—and something fluttered to the ground.

With some effort, Robbe leaned over to retrieve it. It was a letter: beautiful cream-colored parchment, written in an elegant hand that Robbe didn’t recognize. 

More startling was what was pressed into the fold of the page: seven dried roses. The colors were phosphorescent, spectacular, colors only possible by magic: petals in aquamarine, butter-yellow, pearly unicorn-white, lemon-lime. He inhaled. Instantly, a peace stole over him, a serenity so complete that he almost didn’t recognize the feeling. Robbe spent so much time worrying over everything: his schoolwork, his prefect responsibilities, his fellow Hufflepuffs, his friends, his mother. He rarely gave himself the time to relax.

The note read only this: “To heal your pain and ease your mind —S”

Robbe traced over the letters. He put another petal to his nose: this one was blush-pink and silky against his cheek, its color changing from fire-orange to phoenix-red in the wavering candlelight. The smell sent another wave of calm through him, and Robbe fell back into the pillows, feeling light enough to sleep.

In the morning he begged to be released, and after a fussy checkup, Madame Pompfrey agreed that he could go to the Great Hall. 

The Hufflepuffs were still finishing their breakfast. Robbe was hoping to slip in quietly, without much attention, but the moment Jana saw him she let out a delighted yell, and Jens leaped over the table—nearly knocking out a trio of tiny second-years—and gathered him into a hug, lifting him off the ground.

“ _Fuck_ , Jens—injuries, remember—” said Robbe, laughing weakly, pushing Jens away.

“Oh shit—” said Jens, wide-eyed, releasing him. He gave Robbe a worried once-over, “You good, man?”

Robbe shrugged. He settled in between Jana and Jens, letting both of them pile food onto his plate. Moyo immediately began to reporting everything that had happened since Robbe fell—Hufflepuff ended up scoring more on Gryffindor, Jana and Britt went fucking beast-mode after Robbe fell, and Luca blocked just about every hit the Gryffindor chasers sent her way, but eventually Luka caught the Snitch. 

“I don’t, um—” Robbe began. He wanted to remember the fall, but he couldn’t. Everything happened so quickly. “How did I fall?”

“It was Sander,” Amber cut in immediately, plopping down in the seat opposite them. In the center of her plate was a lonely quarter of grapefruit, which she picked at busily with her fork. 

“Huh?” Robbe’s brow knit.

“It wasn’t Sander,” Jens interrupted. “After that first bludger almost knocked you out, Max immediately sent another after you, thinking that would finish the job. Sander went after it—it was insane, he basically rugby-tackled it to the ground before it could hit you. You still fell, of course—there’s no way you could stop, you were going too fast—but it would’ve been a lot worse if Sander wasn’t there.”

“What are you talking about?” said Amber. “Britt said—”

A hand fell on Robbe’s shoulder. Britt stood behind him, wide-eyed with concern, pulling him into a hug from behind. 

“Robbe, I’m so sorry. I just went to Madame Hooch—look, I explained everything, but she insists that she can’t do anything about Sander. I even went to Professor Sprout to see if she could—”

“What do you mean?” said Robbe.

“To get him kicked off the team,” said Britt, as if it were obvious, “for what he did to you. And Noor, for that matter.”

“I thought—” Robbe glanced at Jens, who was staring at Britt like she had lost it, “Jens said Sander tried to save me—”

“Save you?” Britt laughed, unkindly. She shook her head, something bitter and furious glittering in her eyes. “Fucking typical—”

Robbe followed her gaze across the Great Hall. Sander was sitting with the rest of the Gryffindor team at the end of their table. His shoulders were curled in. He looked much smaller than usual. He was picking at the food on his plate, not eating. His eyes never lifted from the table.

“Leave it, Britt,” said Jens quietly, after an awkward silence. 

“You’re gonna just let him get away with it?” Britt said. “Robbe’s your best friend.”

“Madame Hooch said it was fine,” said Jens. “Besides, I know what I saw.”

“Then you’re as stupid as everyone else who buys all of Sander’s manipulative, psycho bullshit,” said Britt. She sounded on the verge of tears. Quieter, she said, “Jens, you _know_ what he put me through.”

Jens sighed hard, ripping a piece of toast into small pieces. He said nothing. Britt left the Hall, her shoulders shaking. Jana and Amber looked at each other, resigned, and slowly went after her.

Before Robbe could say anything more, Zoe slid into Jana’s empty spot. 

“Hey, you,” she said, giving Robbe’s uninjured hand a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

“Ah, you know,” Robbe shrugged. He played with the bandages a bit, “Doesn’t really hurt much anymore. And hey, uh, tell Senne thanks for the note.”

“Senne left you a note?” said Zoe. 

“Yeah, it was nice, it had these um, like flowers or something, I guess they’re for helping with pain or whatever. Guess he felt bad, you know, as Quidditch captain or something?” The more he explained it, the dumber he felt. Zoe was shaking her head, amused.

“Senne was in the library with me all day yesterday,” she said. “I was with him the whole time.”

“Oh, well…” Robbe drifted off, distracted. He saw a white-blonde head disappear from the Great Hall entrance, flanked by the rest of the Gryffindor team. “I guess, um—”

“Hey, I have to go, but I’ll see you later, okay? Study date in the prefects’ lounge, yeah? I’ll tell Yasmina.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” said Robbe, his smiling fading fast. He felt more confused than ever. Further down the table, Milan caught his eye, gesturing for Robbe.

Robbe joined him and a huddle of other seventh-years. Milan lowered his voice so only Robbe could hear.

“So, what’s going on with you and Sander?” said Milan, sounding a little too pleased for Robbe’s taste.

“Huh?” 

“He was staring at you all of breakfast. You didn’t notice?”

“…No,” said Robbe. He tugged at the end of a bandage again. Color flooded his cheeks. He couldn’t face the idea that Sander might have been watching him. 

“— _and_ I saw him leaving the hospital wing yesterday when I went into leave you my card, which I got my entire dormitory to sign, by the way, it took hours of wrangling—”

“You saw him leaving the hospital wing yesterday?”

Milan propped his chin on his hand with a mischievous grin, nodding. Robbe chewed on the corner of his lip.

“ _And,_ ” Milan added, looking more and more delighted by the second, “he was carrying a card. With _flowers._ ”

“He—what?” Robbe whispered. His stomach dipped. Sander couldn’t bring him flowers. Maybe Sander was just checking he was alive. Anyone would do that. It didn’t necessarily mean anything at all, did it—

“Robbe, you’re such a cutie. He was worried about you.”

“Well—” Robbe couldn’t let himself think this was anything more. He couldn’t bear it. He was just Robbe after all—Sander probably didn’t even know who he was before the Quidditch match. Besides, Sander probably didn’t even think about boys like that. 

“Well, he probably just—” Robbe stammered.

Milan clucked his tongue, cutting him off. “I have to be somewhere now, I'm very important, you know, being Head Boy and all, time is money as the Muggles say—Muggles say that, right?—but look, come find me later to talk about your next steps, okay?”

“Next steps?” Robbe demanded.

“Honey, you’re being courted.”

Robbe choked. “I’m—what? _Milan_ —”

“Face the facts, Robbe,” said Milan sternly, standing up in a whoosh of magnificent magenta robes. He patted Robbe on the cheek as he passed, followed by a posse of seventh years.

Robbe stood there, dumbfounded. Jens joined him a minute and led Robbe out of the hall with Moyo and Aaron. Robbe half-listened to their conversation, trying to smile and nod at the right times, but his brain felt too scrambled to focus. Milan had been dying to set Robbe up with someone ever since Robbe came out to him in fourth-year—Robbe loved Milan, but he was a too-eager matchmaker, always drawing connections that just weren’t there. There wasn’t a chance that Sander was interested in him. Besides being Muggleborn, Robbe barely talked to anyone outside of Hufflepuff, and he doubted anyone with as large of a reputation as Sander could have possibly taken notice of him. Robbe stayed with his crowd, he did his homework and his prefect duties, and that was all. He’d never once been to detention. He’d never once dated anyone, and his only friends outside of Hufflepuff were Zoe and Yasmina, both of whom he only really knew because they were fellow prefects. 

Robbe barely slept at all that night. In the early hours of the morning, he finally gave up. He curled up into his usual nook in the window and began writing a long letter to his mama.

_Mama, I made Hufflepuff Seeker. That’s the one who catches the Golden Snitch—I told you about that ages ago, it’s a flying golden ball, and whoever catches it wins their team loads of points. Don’t be too worried, but I did have a pretty bad fall my first match—_

Sunlight was fanning across the high ceilings of their dormitory by the time Robbe finished his letter and had begun working on his Charms essay.

Just as he heard Jens and Aaron and Moyo beginning to stir, a shadow moving across the grounds caught his attention. Robbe almost didn’t notice it at first. Snow was beginning to fall, gently. Later today the prefects were meant to begin helping the professors string the castle with Christmas decorations. Robbe could see Hagrid in the distance, hauling massive ice-laden pine trees across the snowy grounds.

But this shape was a boy. He was wearing a grey beanie pulled tight over his ears, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. 

Though Robbe couldn’t see his hair, he knew it was Sander. He recognized his walk: light, careless, his combat boots leaving a lonely trail of footprints through the snow.

Robbe’s breath fogged against the window. 

“Is that Sander?”

Robbe jumped. He hadn’t heard Jens come up behind him. Robbe climbed off the window, a little too quickly to be casual. Jens narrowed his eyes.

“What?” said Robbe. 

“Nothing,” Jens shrugged, though he still looked a little suspicious. “Breakfast?”

Robbe nodded. The boys changed quickly and left for the Great Hall. After breakfast, Robbe went to the hospital wing to get his bandages removed: Madame Pompfrey’s potions had worked, and his arm felt good as new. Afterwards, he joined the other prefects to receive their Christmas decoration assignments. Robbe offered to help Hagrid move Christmas trees. He was tired of feeling so useless—now that his arm was feeling better, he was eager to use it again, and he figured the fresh air would do him some good.

The walk to Hagrid’s hut was peaceful. The snow blanketed every sound, hushing every movement to a whisper. The air was cool against his cheeks. Robbe inhaled, his eyes closing. Though he loved his friends, he was beginning to feel suffocated by their attention. The only moment of peace or solitude he’d had since his release from the hospital wing was a luxurious escape in the prefect’s bathroom.

“Hagrid?” Robbe called out, once he reached the hut. “Hagrid—are you there?”

Nothing. Robbe looked around. The woods towered behind the hut, looming as huge as mountains, velvety dark against the pale snowy sky. He looked back towards the castle. He could barely make out the shapes of Yasmina and Zoe, their wands directing twinkling tendrils of garland around the entrances of the school. 

Robbe sighed happily. He loved Christmas at Hogwarts more than anything in the world. He almost wished that one year he might get to spend it there. Christmases at home were so lonely: just he and his Mama, pushing chopsticks around takeout boxes. Robbe was decent at housework, but he had no talent for cooking. Afterwards they’d lie together on the couch and watch whatever Christmas movies were playing on television and drink hot chocolate, and Robbe would fall asleep on the couch under a pile of blankets, dreaming of the magnificent Christmas tree in the Hufflepuff common room and all the spectacular wintry plants in the greenhouse, everything smelling of pine and cedar. 

“Hagrid?” Robbe called out again. He peered inside the windows of the hut, but they were dark. 

He heard a soft thump from the thatch of woods behind the hut. He smelled woodsmoke, like someone had recently put out a fire. 

Robbe ventured tentatively into the woods. It was shady under the trees, sunlight dappling through the pines in thin streams. A dark green world all its own, private and secluded.

Another thump, followed by an animal’s hoot, almost like a bird’s, and a sound like crunching. Feet pattered the ground: it was a heavy sound. Whatever animal it was, it sounded massive. Wings beat the air.

A clearing opened behind a thicket of trees. 

Robbe’s breath caught in his throat. 

It was a hippogriff. Three of them. One was snowy-white, like an owl. The second was dark grey. The third was a russet red-brown.

Between them all was Sander. He was holding some sort of poultry upside down by its legs. He swung it upwards, and the russet-colored hippogriff caught it in its beak, its powerful neck rearing back as it chewed. 

“Sander?” said Robbe. 

Sander didn’t move. Robbe tried again. 

Still, Sander’s back faced him. He was wearing the grey beanie again, though no gloves. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and Robbe could see a thin red scratch on his forearm. 

“Sander?” Robbe called out again, louder than ever. 

This time, all three hippogriffs raised their heads. Robbe staggered back. There was something menacing about the glint in their dark eyes. 

Only then did Sander turn, and Robbe realized immediately why he couldn’t hear him: he was wearing headphones. The wire led down to his pocket, where Robbe could make out the shape of a music player. 

Sander slung the headphones around his neck. His face lit up as soon as he saw Robbe, and before he knew it Sander was right in front of him, beaming. 

His smile was even more ruinously beautiful up close. Robbe barely lasted a second before he had to look away, his head ducking, hating how shy he suddenly felt.

“You’re okay,” said Sander, reaching out to take his arm. “I was worried _this_ was fucked,” he said, laughing, moving Robbe’s arm from side to side. 

Robbe bit back a laugh. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m alright.” He managed to look into Sander’s eyes.

It was only then that he noticed the spectacular bruise mottling Sander’s right eye. The eye itself wasn’t swollen at all, but the color around it was a terrible berry-blue, tinging yellow at the edges. 

Sander noticed him looking. “Aw, this? This is nothing. Just a scratch. That bludger I caught—it hates me.”

Robbe didn’t say anything. Sander was still looking at him in a way that made Robbe’s stomach twist. He was grateful for the cold—anything to hide his pinking cheeks. 

“So, uh,” Robbe started awkwardly, “why are you—?”

“With the hippogriffs?” Sander quirked an eyebrow.

“No,” Robbe laughed, “I was gonna ask about _that._ ” He gestured at the headphones. 

“Oh this?” Sander twirled a headphone around his finger. “This is so I can listen to David Bowie.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know David Bowie?”

“Uh….” Robbe laughed weakly. “No?”

“I thought you were Muggleborn.”

Robbe couldn’t hide his surprise. He was surprised Sander knew that about him. He was surprised Sander knew more than his name. 

“I am,” said Robbe. “You listen to Muggle music?”

“Of course, my parents are Muggles.”

Robbe’s eyes widened. “They are?”

“You look so shocked,” Sander laughed. “Ah, I know. You thought I was…what? A Parseltongue? You know, that snake I kept under my bed—I found it by the Great Lake, it was really sick, I was just trying to get it healthy again to release it—”

“I was gonna say a half-Veela, actually,” said Robbe, winking.

He almost couldn’t believe his own bravery. But it was worth it for the look Sander gave him, half-bashful, half-amused, like he couldn’t quite believe Robbe’s bravery either. 

“I’m not that either,” Sander said. His voice was low and a little hoarse. 

A thread of icy wind whistled through the trees, lifting both of their hair. Their eyes met again and glanced away, tentative and wistful. 

“Here,” Sander said, even softer. He held out a headphone, shuffling closer to Robbe. Their fingers brushed as Robbe accepted it. Sander’s shoulder pressed against his, their faces close enough now that Robbe’s gaze was eye-level with Sander’s mouth.

Robbe glanced up, accidentally. Sander’s eyes were sea-foam green. Mermaid green. Ethereal, sublime, otherworldly green. His eyelashes dipped, soot-dark against his cheeks.

A song spilled through the headphone. Sander hummed along with the little guitar riff at the beginning. He was so cute Robbe couldn’t help but bite back a smile.

“ _Rebel rebel, how could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so!”_ Sander sang along, grinning down at Robbe. He did a goofy air guitar, just to make Robbe laugh. 

The snow-white hippogriff threw its head back, huffing, angry that it wasn’t getting attention anymore. Sander rolled his eyes.

“So needy, these guys,” he said, grinning. He began to walk towards the hippogriffs, pocketing his headphones.

Robbe hung back, nervous. He’d never been this close to a hippogriff, let alone three.

“Come,” said Sander, jerking his head. It was not unlike the gesture he made during Quidditch tryouts—Robbe’s heart stuttered, remembering. Sander had helped him find the Snitch.

Timidly, Robbe followed. 

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Sander said, taking Robbe gently by the wrist. “Come.”

Robbe let himself be led. He felt Sander move behind him. His hands braced Robbe’s shoulders. His lips were close enough that they almost touched Robbe’s ear.

“Would you like to ride one?”

“What?” Robbe laughed, incredulous. “Are you—” He stopped himself before he said _crazy._ “You’re—you’re serious?”

Sander turned Robbe around. His expression was perfectly deadpan. He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I do it all the time,” said Sander, “it’s like flying. You’re a great flyer.”

“It’s like _flying,”_ Robbe repeated back to him, dripping with skepticism, trying to ignore the thrill of pleasure that shivered through him. Sander though he was a _great flyer._ “Yeah right."

“I’ll ride with you.”

Robbe bit his lip. Sander’s face was earnest as anything. He wasn’t fucking with him. Robbe felt something wriggle inside his ribcage, some yearning, eager thing. He crossed his arms across his chest and hugged his own shoulders, shaking his head. 

“Oh, come on,” said Sander. “I promise I’ll keep you safe. Don’t you trust me?”

Robbe raised a wry eyebrow. He said nothing.

“You’ll love it. I promise you’ll love it.”

The last of his defenses gave a final, helpless shudder before collapsing. There was no point fighting it. Robbe knew he’d do almost anything Sander asked of him.

Sander was already beginning to grin. He knew Robbe would say yes. He moved behind Robbe again, his hands on his shoulders. 

“Go for the white one,” he said, “she’s the sweetest. She’ll like you.”

Sander’s voice was low in Robbe’s ear. He fought back a shiver. 

“What do I do?” Robbe whispered.

“You start with a bow.”

“A bow?” Robbe turned his cheek to face Sander, dubious. He instantly regretted it. Sander’s face was too close. Dangerously close.

Sander’s eyes glittered. “A bow,” he repeated, solemnly. 

He released Robbe. Robbe took a shaky step forward. The white hippogriff met his eyes. 

“Her name’s Wilhelmina,” said Sander. 

“Hi Wilhelmina,” said Robbe.

Sander snorted, laughing. Robbe grinned to himself, feeling a little braver. He took another tentative step. 

He bowed. He felt foolish doing it—it hit him, suddenly, terrifyingly, that this could just be one of Sander’s pranks. His eyes traveled upwards, slowly, until they found Wilhelmina’s cool, dark eyes.

Then, to his surprise, she bowed her head. 

Robbe felt Sander’s fingers on his shoulder, gently pulling him upright. 

“Go on,” said Sander, “you can touch her.”

Robbe’s heart was in his throat. He reached out a hand. Sure enough, the hippogriff accepted his touch. Her feathers were unbearably soft, and shockingly warm. She closed her eyes, pleased. 

He turned around. Sander was smiling at him. It was a smile to break thunderclouds, a smile that could crack open diamonds, a smile so brilliant it almost hurt to look at. 

Then Sander ran his fingers along her spine, until Wilhelmina's legs bent low. 

“Climb on,” said Sander.

A leap of faith. That’s all Sander was asking. 

This time, Robbe didn’t hesitate. Once he was sure he had a strong grip around her neck, he swung his leg over. Before he could even congratulate himself, Sander was swinging easily onto her back behind him. 

Robbe swallowed, hard. Sander’s hands settled on his hips.

“Is this alright?” Sander asked, his voice too low, too rough in Robbe’s ear.

Robbe didn’t trust himself to speak. He could only nod. 

Sander’s legs squeezed the hippogriff’s back, and she took off. 

“Holy shit,” said Robbe, terror and elation warring insight his ribcage as the forest grew smaller and smaller. The snowfall had stopped. The lake came into view. A mirror image of the castle, upside-down, sparkled in its icy-smooth reflection. 

Robbe felt like all his limbs were loosening, unhinging. A laugh escaped him, and then another.

He remembered the first spell he ever conjured correctly. It was in Charms class, which to this day remained his favorite course. He was smaller than the rest of his classmates, more uncertain—everything was new to him, everything dazzled, everything terrified him. He was not like his classmates, who grew up with pans that cleaned themselves and neighbors that could turn into animals and parents that could disappear and reappear at will. For Robbe, every magical thing he encountered was a miracle. He spent most of his first year half-terrified he’d wake up one morning and discover that Hogwarts was nothing more than some fairy-tale mirage he’d conjured in a fever dream. It was only by second year that Robbe began to trust himself, to open himself up to the possibility that this was real, and more than that—that he might actually deserve to be a part of it. That he, too, was a magical thing. Perhaps even a miracle.

But this— _this_ was nothing close to that feeble, timid, half-formed feeling. This was like discovering another universe inside of himself. 

He let himself lean backwards. Sander, sure enough, was right there. 

“I’ve got you,” Sander assured him. His breath was hot against Robbe’s ear.

Robbe, hardly believing his own nerve, released one hand from the hippogriff’s neck. Sander and Robbe both let out a triumphant howl, their arms outstretched, marveling at their magic.

—

The next few days Robbe spent curled up in his favorite chair in the common room. He and Amber and the other prefects decorated accordingly: each of Sprout’s cacti and succulents wore a wreath, glittering with ornaments that skip from plant to plant. From the high circular windows are little curls of dried fruit skins, oranges and grapefruits in elaborate shapes, scenting the room. He finished writing his essays a bit slower than usual. Only Jens seems to notice that he was more distracted than normal, kicking Robbe’s shins when he noticed his gaze drifting out the window again, hunting for a white-blonde head, a grey beanie, combat boots.

“What’s left?” Jens asked. He’d already cracked open a bottle of fire whiskey. All Jens had left was his Divination final, and everyone knew that was a complete joke.

“Just the last paragraph for History of Magic,” said Robbe. It was the last day before everyone boarded the train the following morning for Christmas holiday.

“You want?” said Jens, holding out a glass for Robbe.

Robbe stood up from his usual chair, rolling his eyes. There weren’t many people in the Common Room today: most of the first and second years had their last exams in-class, and the older students were holed up in the library, desperately finishing the last of their essays.

“I’ve got to deliver this,” said Robbe, holding up a roll of parchment. His letter to his Mama. 

“Wanna borrow the pigeon?” Jens had an owl named Gwenog, after his favorite Quiddich player. He discovered in third year that Muggles didn’t use owls, but at one point used to carry mail by pigeon—he inexplicably found this hilarious, and took to calling his owl “the pigeon.”

“Sure, thanks,” said Robbe.

“She’s in the Owlery.”

Robbe left. A group of first-years were huddled by the giant fruit-bowl painting outside the kitchens. They scattered as soon as they saw Robbe’s prefect badge.

The Owlery was empty. He wished he’d dressed a little warmer. The snowfall was still gentle, but the Owlery’s altitude made the wind more biting.

Gwenog was already holding a letter. Robbe untied it quickly. It wasn’t his mama’s usual pale blue envelope, nor her handwriting, but the letter was addressed to him. Robbe’s brow knit. No one besides his mama had ever sent him a letter.

He took it gently from her leg, petting her distractedly as he read. The letter head was from a mental health institution.

Robbe gnawed his lip as he read. It was a doctor’s note. His Mama had been admitted a few days prior. Her conditions had worsened to the point of self-endangerment, though she was noticeably improving with the help of state-supervised medical care. The doctor would keep Robbe informed about her health, but it would probably be best if he could find alternative accommodation for the time being. 

He felt dizzy. Robbe folded the note tight, then unfolded it again immediately, re-reading every line. _An institution._

Slowly, Robbe slid down to the floor. Gwenog hopped from her cubby hole to the floor, pushing her head under his arm. He pet her, still distracted. His eyes burned. His mama had been admitted to an institution once before, though only for a couple of days, when he was in fourth year. Maybe he could visit her with floo powder. Maybe he could borrow a broom, a hippogriff even, and fly to her. Maybe he could—

The door swung open. Robbe flinched, startled. It took him an entire two seconds before he realized the person standing in the doorway was Sander.

He had a package under his arm, looped with ribbons. His face immediately lit up when he saw Robbe.

“Robbe!” said Sander. His smile was rapturous. It dimmed, a little, when he saw that Robbe was sitting on the floor.

“Are you alright?” he asked, setting down the package. 

Robbe immediately climbed to his feet, brushing the hay off his pant legs. 

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” said Robbe quickly. He ran a hand quickly through his hair, cursing himself for not brushing it. He’d spent the last few days in an essay-writing hole, emerging only to fetch cups of tea and sandwiches, and he was certain he looked terrible.

Sander, meanwhile, looked as though he’d just ran here. His cheeks were pink, his pale hair messy. His black-eye had almost entirely faded.

“You sure?” said Sander, nodding towards the letter clenched tight in Robbe’s fist. He reached out, and for a moment Robbe thought he might take Robbe by the hand, or touch his cheek. 

Robbe swallowed, hard, composing himself. “I, um—” He pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his hands. He looked up at Sander. His face was so open. So earnest. And before Robbe could stop himself, he said quietly, “My mama was admitted into a mental institution.”

Sander’s expression faltered.

Robbe chewed on the corner of his lip. He looked down at his feet. “Looks like I’ll be spending Christmas at Hogwarts this year.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sander, after a silence. “Do you usually go home?”

Robbe nodded. 

“That’s hard, you know,” said Sander. “Breaking those traditions. I’m sure you and your Mama—”

“My Mama and I don’t really have any traditions,” said Robbe.

“Really?” said Sander. He looked genuinely distressed by the thought.

Robbe shook his head, with a sad, wistful sort of smile.

“Well, Christmas at Hogwarts is always amazing,” said Sander. He gave Robbe a reassuring pat on the shoulder, reaching past him to tie the package he’d brought to an owl’s leg. Their faces were unbearably close.

“Oh,” said Robbe, hating how small his voice sounded. “So you, um…you’ll be here for Christmas, too?”

Sander jerked his chin at the owl, and it soared away. He turned to face Robbe. Their mouths were inches from each other. Robbe hardly dared to breathe.

“Oh yeah,” said Sander, looking sunny and winsome and altogether so lovely that it pained Robbe to look at him. But Robbe couldn’t look away. Every one of his atoms spun into Sander’s orbit, helpless, magnetized. Robbe was fucked. He was undeniably, gloriously fucked. 

Sander grinned at him. “I spend every Christmas at Hogwarts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's the thing. after the beautiful but completely all-consuming whirlwind that was druck, i swore i'd never let another SKAM remake consume my every waking thought/take over my entire writing schedule/etc. i swore it, okay. and then along came a little show called wtfock and a sweet little hufflepuff named robbe and his angel-faced blonde bf sander. and i was like cool cool cool cool i've got this. i will NOT become obsessed i will watch this in a completely casual way and it will be FINE.
> 
> but then some things happened. first: recently i was in a pretty bad car accident (i'm alive, airbags are great, everything's fine except for my bank account, pride, my once-beautiful car, etc). so i've pretty much just been in my bed watching harry potter and simultaneously refreshing the wtfock page like, you know, the completely obsessed person i swore i'd never become again. then i started thinking about gryffindor!sander. i have MANY feelings about this. i know lots of people want to put him in slytherin--as a slytherin i respect that, i really do--but sander driesen is a gryffindor and i will defend this theory to the death (ted talk forthcoming). anyways, the gears started turning and all of a sudden i had 10k of a christmas hogwarts AU. 
> 
> a few things:
> 
> 1) this will (most likely) be five chapters with alternating POVS, so next chapter will be sander's POV. 
> 
> 2) the title is a reference to shakespeare's the tempest...those of you who were with me through mad as the sea and wind (or the druck college/hamlet AU) know i'm a slut for shakespeare references. gotta sneak em in any way i can
> 
> 3) comments mean the absolute world to me <3 i'm so excited to hear what y'all think of this one!! also feel free to hmu on tumblr if that's your preferred platform (@aholynight)


	2. Chapter Two

He’s seen werewolves, in photos. They studied them in fourth year. Sander remembered tracing the photos with a finger, entranced and terrified by the evolution in their form. Spines curving, monstrous. Hands elongating, bones breaking and stitching back together, fingernails sharpening. A face becomes a snout becomes a beast, hungry for meat. He drew werewolves obsessively, everywhere. McGonagall docked points from an essay for all the dark charcoal sketches he’d left in the margins. He drew them on the walls of his common room bedroom with his favorite Zonko’s chalk, scaring his roommates with their moving shapes. He drew them in the Room of Requirement—his very own art studio—the old-fashioned way, on canvas, with Muggle paint. 

He showed them to Britt a few months after they started dating. He was no good at explaining his brain, and he thought this might make her understand. Wizards don’t have a word for _bipolar._ When Sander discovered it in a dusty volume in the Muggle Studies section of the library, it was like finally putting lyrics to a song he’d been humming for months, at long-last arranging language around the scary-beautiful carnival of his brain. He remembered going to Madame Pompfrey, the book under his arm, showing her, trying to explain. _When I was brought to you half-frozen last month, remember, I was naked on the side of Great Lake—the school thought I’d taken Felix Felicis, but I didn’t, no one believed me. It was this. I promise. It was this._ Madame Pompfrey told him he probably just needed to have some chocolate. Maybe take a bath to calm down.

Sander had been a wild kid. His parents had tried to medicate him when he was eight: he was hyperactive, he couldn’t sit still, he never did his homework, he broke almost everything he touched, he never slept. ADHD: that’s what Muggles called it.

He’d been punished for so much as a child. When he was seven he kicked a football through a window during recess. But when the teachers went to reprimand him, not a shard of glass was out of place. His parents were terrified of him. When he was ten they went on a camping trip, and it started to rain: not only did Sander get a fire lit, but he kept it burning in the rain. 

When he was eleven, a thick cream-colored envelope with a glossy red seal came in through the mail slot. It felt like vindication. Sander wasn’t _broken._ He wasn’t _unruly,_ or _alien_ or _too much._

He was magic.

At Hogwarts he was a prince. They put a talking hat on his head that put him in Gryffindor, where he met other wild boys and girls like him. He found his tribe almost instantly. He was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team by his third-year. He nicked food from the kitchens, discovered secret passageways into Hogsmeade, spent hours upon hours cleaning up messes or scrubbing armor or helping Hagrid in detention. 

In sixth-year during a trip to Hogsmeade, buzzed on butterbeer, he kissed Britt, a Hufflepuff Chaser in the year below him. It spun out of control. They spent nearly every second they could together, and during his long nights, when his spine began to curve out of shape, when his skin felt too hot, too tight, a cage, he tried to tell her, in halting whispers, about what his brain sounded like. What it looked like. What he felt like, what he was. He tried to describe it. He showed her the word he’d found in the Muggle book—bipolar—and she’d laughed, shutting the book. 

“ _Muggles,_ ” she said, shaking her head. She ran her nails gently down the curve of his cheek, smiling at him, looking terribly amused. Sander wasn’t sure what was so funny to her, but he grinned anyways, because she wasn’t leaving him. Britt loved him. He wasn’t going to be left alone.

He put his head on her chest and whispered all sorts of things he’d always been terrified to say out loud. How when he was feeling too much—the book called it _manic—_ every night was a century long. And in that century he might fall in love, he might travel far and wide, he might fall out of love again. And when he woke up and saw the clock— _it’s only been six hours, Sander, what the fuck are you talking about, what are you thinking_ —he was a child again. Or less: he was a butterfly returned to its chrysalis and spat back out, skinless, and vulnerable. 

His skin was unbearable to him. He felt like a creature. When the moon took its shape in the sky he became something else, something foreign to everyone. Even himself. He was alone. Even with Britt right beside him, he was alone. 

“ _I’ve got you,_ you stupid, silly thing,” she told him, petting his hair, as if he were some animal she’d charitably decided to take in, some abandoned puppy she’d saved from a shelter, unwanted by everyone else. “And I won’t let you go.”

And she was right. She was everywhere. 

—

There was a boy in the Three Broomsticks with Jens. Sander knew Jens through Quidditch, but the boy next to him was new to Sander. This was a miracle in itself: Sander thought he’d seen everything. He thought his course was already charted, that there were no new islands to discover. He and Britt would marry, they would take respectable jobs at the Ministry—she had it all planned out, every inch of his wild unruly life she’d tamed into a sensible shape. 

But this boy. This boy was a _new thing._ This boy was the first spell Sander ever cast, the magic discovery of the unbroken window, the fire he started in the rain, the first flight on a broomstick. He was magic. 

That was the tragic thing about magic. Once you did it enough it became commonplace. It lost its thrill. 

Sander had almost forgotten the boy he’d once been, the wild thing, the boy was too big for his body or his parent’s tiny world. Sander had become small without even realizing it. He’d forgotten that magic was a miracle, that the world was his to be discovered, that he could chart his own path. 

He’d forgotten. But then Sander looked at this boy—this boy with dark doe-eyes like some fanciful woodland creature, a face designed to be cradled in careful hands, a smile meant to be drawn on paper and canvas and bedroom walls—and he remembered. 

—

Sander didn’t go with the others to watch the train leave. He and Senne and the other seventh-years had spent the previous night holding court in the Gryffindor Common Room, drinking until the early hours of the morning. He woke up with a dull headache, briefly remembering trying to sneak into Hogsmeade around 3 AM through the secret entrance before realizing the candy shop would be closed anyways, and passing out in front of the hearth in the common room with half the Gryffindor Quidditch team, still clutching a nearly empty bottle of fire whiskey by the neck. 

He didn’t bother going to the Great Hall for breakfast: it would be almost completely empty, and he knew for a fact Robbe would still be by the train, watching the others leave.

Maybe he should’ve tried to go down to the train after all. 

But Sander liked his original plan better: he was going to surprise Robbe. He remembered the sweet, started look Robbe gave him when Sander told him he spent every Hogwarts at Christmas. Sander had seen the other looks too: shy looks Robbe had sent him under his eyelashes, quick glances over his shoulder in the Great Hall. Every accidental brush of eye contact gave him a sharp thrill. He had a feeling Robbe wasn’t used to being given the attention he deserved, and Sander wanted to be the one to show Robbe what that felt like.

He went to the third-floor corridor. In his back pocket was a rolled-up Quibbler, which he flipped through idly as he waited. In the center fold was a tiny toy-dog. He’d seen these advertised in Zonko's: they were called watch-dogs. You could put them anywhere to block someone’s path, and the dog would bark obnoxiously until given the correct password. 

Sander tapped it with his wand. The dog let out a single, annoying yelp. He grinned and set it down in the center of the hallway.

A silhouette appeared at the end of the corridor. Sander leaned against the statue of Gunhilda the Gorsemoor, resting his chin on her knotty wooden staff as he watched Robbe approach. Robbe’s hands were stuffed deep in his pockets. He was wearing a burgundy-colored beanie, his brown hair messy and soft-looking underneath. He was watching the stone floor, oblivious. Sander had to bite back a laugh as Robbe almost tripped over the dog.

“…the fuck?” Robbe murmured. 

He tried to pass. The little toy-dog started barking furiously, running everywhere Robbe tried to step. 

“Ow—” said Robbe. Sander bit down on his hand, forcing himself not to make a sound. He hadn’t realized the dog would try to bite Robbe’s ankles.

Robbe spun around, helplessly, as the dog became more and more aggressive. His expression was adorable—half outraged, half forlorn—that Sander caved, stepping out from behind the one-eyed witch statue, dissolving into laughter at the look Robbe sent him.

“Make him stop!” Robbe insisted.

“I’m afraid it’s out of my control,” Sander said, shaking his head seriously. “You have to give him the password.”

Robbe sent him an indignant look before sighing in surrender. “Please?” he tried.

Sander applauded himself for not caving then and there. Robbe’s puppy-dog eyes were a sight to behold. 

“Nice try,” said Sander.

Robbe narrowed his eyes. He was so cute it was almost unfair. 

“ _Sander,_ ” he whined. “Let me through. I have to—”

“You have to what?” Sander cut him off. “Finish an essay? Run off and do your prefect duties?”

Robbe rolled his eyes. He ran his thumb over his bottom lip—Sander wanted to pull his fingers away and worry that lip between his teeth, then kiss it, over and over.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “David Bowie?” Robbe tried, hopefully.

The dog stopped barking. 

Something jerked in Sander’s stomach, something almost too hopeful to bear. _Robbe remembered._

“ _Dissendium,_ ” Sander whispered. 

The one-eyed witch’s hump opened slowly, revealing a tunnel. 

Before Robbe could say another word, and before Sander lost his nerve, he grabbed Robbe by the wrist, and yanked him through. 

Robbe let out a surprised yelp as the passageway revealed itself. “What are you—?”

“You’ve never snuck into Hogsmeade this way before?” said Sander.

“Uh….no?” Robbe laughed nervously. 

“ _Lumos,_ ” Sander whispered. 

Light illuminated Robbe’s face. Sander couldn’t help but savor its expression for a moment: equal parts skittish and nervy, hesitant and hopeful.

“What are you doing with me?” said Robbe. There it was again: that nervous laugh that Robbe gave, the one Sander had come to realize was more like armor than anything else. But underneath that was something so fragile it nearly stopped Sander in his tracks. He swallowed, hard. He wished he could say something to put Robbe’s fears to rest. _You deserve to be treated so carefully. If you let me, I’d be so careful with you._

But Sander couldn’t say any of that. 

“Come,” said Sander, tilting his head. He held his wand aloft, lighting their path. 

They crept into the Honeydukes basement, Robbe stifling his laughter as Sander nearly broke his ankle tripping over a stray box of Fizzing Whizzbees. The shop was bustling with people doing last-minute Christmas shopping, and Robbe and Sander slipped into the crowd unnoticed. 

He guided Robbe into the fudge aisle, scanning the row of samples. He plucked out a little square of treacle fudge and held it to Robbe’s lips.

Sander expected him to duck his head, shyly. But instead Robbe met his gaze as he accepted the candy into his mouth. His eyes were liquid-dark, richer than chocolate. Sander could hardly breathe.

“Good?” Sander managed to whisper.

The corner of Robbe’s mouth lifted. “Really good.”

Ignoring Robbe’s protests, Sander bought them both nearly two sacks full of candy. The bell tinkled as they left. They nearly knocked over a rogue parade of carolers marching through the snow-dusted streets of Hogsmeade. Every where they looked was a Christmas tree, dripping with ornaments that hopped from branch to branch, almost collapsing under the weight of decoration. 

Sander led Robbe to the Three Broomsticks, which was packed with shoppers as expected. They were able to bully their way into a somewhat private little nook near the back of the pub—Sander, unable to resist touching Robbe any longer, put a hand on the small of his back—and left him there to guard their candy while he bought them drinks. 

Robbe was nibbling on a cauldron cake when Sander returned. He accepted the butter beer Sander offered him, clinking it against Sander’s with a wink. Sander bit his lip, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the bob of Robbe’s throat as he swallowed.

“I used to see you in here with Jens,” said Sander. The Three Broomsticks was loud with music and laughter, and he had to lean close. 

Robbe’s brow knit, surprised. “You did?”

Sander nodded. “Yeah. You were sitting over there, by the window. It was getting late—the sun was starting to set. Me, I usually stayed until dark.”

“But we’re not allowed to stay after dark,” said Robbe, frowning.

Sander put his his chin on his hand, smiling fondly in spite of himself. Not being allowed had never stopped him. 

But Robbe was so careful. Sander wondered what it would be like to see Robbe careless. _Carefree_. To see him unspool, devil-may-care, without worrying about the consequences. Wild, untroubled, _euphoric._

“I used to see you here with Britt sometimes,” Robbe said quietly. 

Sander flinched, involuntarily. He quickly smoothed his expression into something casual, but he was certain Robbe had seen. It had been almost three months since Sander had finally broken up with Britt for good. But some mornings he still woke up short of breath, certain that he’d never left her, certain that any moment she would appear in the doorway with that familiar look on her face, like Sander had done something stupid, something reckless, something terrible _._ Or worse: she’d throw her arms around his shoulders and kiss his cheek as if he were a child, pitying—and Sander would close his eyes, his throat so thick with self-loathing he could barely speak, his mind a cruel mantra: _this is it, this is your life, at least you’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone—_

When Sander finally ripped his mind from that place— _you left her, you did it, it’s over—_ Robbe was holding out a green jelly bean. 

Sander lifted an eyebrow. 

“It’s a good one,” said Robbe.

Sander shot him a skeptical look.

“Come on,” said Robbe. “Don’t you trust me?”

Robbe’s eyes glittered. A challenge. Sander took the jelly bean between his lips, his eyes narrowed at Robbe. 

He spat it out immediately. “That’s fucking _grass_.”

Robbe laughed, dodging Sander’s weak attempts to hit him. “I thought it was green apple, I swear!”

“ _Liar,_ ” said Sander, pushing Robbe away, though he cupped his hand behind Robbe’s head to make sure it didn’t knock into the wall. 

They spent the next hour knocking back butter beers, daring each other to try mysterious-colored jelly beans. Sander declared he’d had enough after Robbe successfully coaxed him into trying a white one—it was soap—and swore he’d never trust Robbe’s puppy-eyes again.

It was gently snowing by the time they shoved each other out onto the busy streets of Hogsmeade again, their heads swimming with butterbeer. Sander led Robbe away from the village center, up a snowy path, ignoring Robbe’s whines of protest. 

“I swear, if you’re taking me to the Shrieking Shack—”

“ _Aww,_ ” Sander pulled a face, mock-concerned. “Are you scared?”

“No!” Robbe protested loudly. 

Sander patted Robbe on the cheek. “ _Don’t you trust me?_ ”

“For the millionth time I didn’t know it was soap, _okay_ , I said I was _sorry—”_ Robbe rolled his eyes, exasperated. 

They reached the top of the hill. Robbe fell silent. 

The Shrieking Shack looked even more ominous against the pale grey sky, a dark Gothic monstrosity against the pure white snow. 

“You scared yet?” Sander whispered. The corner of his mouth twitched. 

Robbe looked at him quickly, then back at the Shrieking Shack, steeling himself. “No,” he said, unconvincingly.

Sander grinned. “It’s really not that scary.”

“I’m not scared,” Robbe insisted. 

Sander held out his hand. Robbe looked at it for a long moment before taking it, letting Sander guide him through the snow. 

The door creaked as it opened. The house was dark with shadows. A thread of wind whistled through the house, eerie and mournful as a song. They crept further into the house. Sander brushed aside dusty cobwebs. On the floorboards were jagged pools of soft light, streaming weakly through the boarded-up windows. 

“Sander?” said Robbe hesitantly. 

Sander knew what Robbe was going to ask a second before he opened his mouth. 

“Last year,” Robbe started, haltingly. “At Christmas. Why did you run—”

Sander put a finger to Robbe's lips, cutting him off. 

"Look up," Sander whispered. His heart was in his throat. 

Robbe looked up. 

Between Sander’s fingers, just above Robbe’s upturned face, was a cluster of mistletoe. 

Something complicated played across Robbe’s face. Sander’s heart beat so loudly he was sure Robbe could hear it. Maybe he had miscalculated. Maybe he’d misread the signs. Or maybe he’d read everything perfectly, and it was Robbe who doubted _him,_ who thought this was Sander’s idea of a bad joke. 

So Sander leaned forward. Robbe’s eyes lifted to meet him, his expression terrified and hopeful and—

Sander’s lips pressed against Robbe’s, ever so gently. Robbe tasted like butterscotch. He tasted like candy. 

He pulled away. Robbe’s eyes were closed, stunned. 

Before Sander dared to breathe again, Robbe took his face into his hands and kissed him.

Fingers fumbled for the front of his jacket, hungry, like Robbe was trying to drink from him, like he would take anything Sander offered him, like he would fall the moment Sander released him. Sander’s fingers found soft hair. His thumbs dragged along the sharp-soft curve of Robbe’s cheekbone. _A face made for cradling._

Sander had been kissed before, of course. He thought he knew what a kiss was. A kiss was something he gave when he wanted to be forgiven. A kiss was something he thought he owed to whoever he’d hurt: it was a consolation prize. A kiss wasn’t for him: it was a bargaining tool, charity, a sacrifice, a weapon.

This kiss wasn’t like that. This kiss was a gift.

—

It was dark when they made their way to the top of the Astronomy Tower. It took them ages to get back to Hogwarts. Now that they’d had a taste of each other, they couldn’t stop kissing—they were greedy, gluttonous, starving. Sander pushed Robbe into nearly every corner they came across, addicted to the sweet startled noises Robbe made every time Sander licked into his mouth. They stumbled down Hogwarts’s cavernous, echoing passageways, feeling like kings of an empty kingdom, like nothing was denied to them. Robbe’s arms looped around Sander’s shoulders, jumping onto his back, kissing Sander’s cheeks. 

Sander felt so light he thought he might float away. He felt invincible. 

He led Robbe up the stairs, until the vast night sky spilled before them: an entire cosmos, theirs and theirs alone.

Sander summoned a blanket, and they sprawled out beneath the stars, their heads tucked into the crooks of each other’s elbows, stealing kissing from each other. 

“See that?” Sander followed Robbe’s finger, which pointed skyward. “Do you know that star?”

Sander shook his head. With Robbe’s other hand, he carded his fingers gently through Sander’s hair. 

“That’s Andromeda,” said Robbe. He told Sander the story, his voice low and lovely, almost lulling Sander to sleep. Andromeda was the beautiful daughter of Cepheus and the queen Cassiopeia, who flaunted her daughter’s beauty and declared her even more desirable than the sea nymphs. But this angered the sea nymphs, who went to Poseidon and demanded revenge. And so poor Andromeda was chained to a rock in the sea, as punishment for her mother’s vanity. 

“What happened to her?” Sander whispered.

“She was saved by Perseus,” said Robbe.

“Perseus?”

Perseus, Robbe explained, was a hero, the son of Danae and Zeus himself, the god of all gods. Perseus, too, was the victim of another’s envy: his grandfather, Danae’s father, was the King of Argos, who heard a prophecy that his own grandson would one day kill him. To stop the prophecy, the King casted his daughter and newly born grandson into the sea in a wooden chest. They were saved by fishermen, and when Perseus was old enough, he was sent to kill Medusa, to prove his bravery. Most thought he wouldn’t survive. But Perseus was beloved by the gods, and not only did he kill Medusa and turn her to stone, but he saved Andromeda from her chains on the rock. 

“What happened to them?” said Sander.

“They married,” said Robbe. He looked down at Sander, with a little smile. Sander ran his thumb along Robbe’s lip. How had Robbe gone this long with no one to kiss him or tell him how lovely he looked in moonlight.

“You know a lot about the stars,” said Sander.

Robbe shrugged. “I think it’s interesting.”

“Divination, too?”

“Some of it,” said Robbe, curling a lock of Sander’s hair around his finger. 

Sander’s teeth scraped against his lip, considering. 

“You don’t like it?” said Robbe. 

Sander’s throat worked. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I think it just…I don’t know.”

“It scares you,” said Robbe. It wasn’t a question.

Sander looked at him, surprised that Robbe had learned him so quickly. He wasn’t sure if that terrified him or not. 

He nodded, haltingly. 

“Why?” Robbe asked softly. His fingers were soft on Sander’s cheek, not pushing, just curious.

“I think prophecies scare me,” Sander admitted. “The idea that—that what’s gonna happen is just gonna happen. That I can’t control it. I like to think I’m in control of my own life.”

Robbe leaned up on his elbow, his face hovering above Sander’s. He gave him a slow, gentle kiss. Robbe kissed him until Sander felt the tightness in his chest finally loosen. Sander opened his mouth, as if Robbe were feeding him each breath. His fingers tightened in the back of Robbe’s hair, perhaps a little too forcefully. But Robbe made a pleased, unthinking sound into Sander’s mouth, deepening the kiss, and Sander rolled on top of him, grinning at the way Robbe melted underneath him, hungry for more.

He dragged slow gentle kisses down the curve of Robbe’s cheek, his jaw, his throat. Robbe’s fingers curled in Sander’s jacket, tugging him impossibly closer. Sander nestled his head in the crook of Robbe’s neck.

Robbe’s fingers moved through his hair. Sander’s eyes wanted to flutter shut, but he couldn’t: he didn’t want to stop looking at Robbe.

“Why did you help me during tryouts?” Robbe asked softly. “With the Snitch?”

Sander’s mouth twitched, remembering. He was so impulsive. Robbe had looked so nervous that day, so convinced that some random third-year would actually beat him for the position. 

“I dunno,” said Sander, shrugging. “I just wanted to see you smile.”

“But you didn’t even know me,” said Robbe.

“I’d seen you before,” said Sander.

“You had?” said Robbe, looking so genuinely surprised that Sander’s stomach gave a painful twist. 

“Yeah, I told you,” he said. “In the Three Broomsticks. The sun was setting behind you and you just looked so—” He searched for the words. Robbe was hanging on his every word. Sander had to be careful. He had to say it right. “You looked like something I wanted to paint.”

“You paint?”

Sander nodded. 

“Can I see?”

Sander smiled. Robbe wanted to _see._ He curled his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of Robbe’s neck and pulled him close for a kiss. “You can see anything you want,” he whispered. 

Robbe’s head rested against his. Sander curled further into Robbe, so his head was on Robbe’s shoulder. 

“Why are you always in the Forbidden Forest?” Robbe asked. 

“What is this—twenty questions?” Sander laughed.

But Robbe looked serious. Sander played with the zipper on Robbe’s jacket, resigned.

“I like helping Hagrid with the animals,” said Sander. “They’re gentle, most of them, you know. If you treat them right. If you meet them on their level. Hippogriffs, for example: they’re extremely intelligent, you know? They’re not beasts, like everyone thinks. They make perfect companions, so long as you make the effort to understand what they need.”

He felt Robbe’s lips on his forehead. 

“Is that what you want to do?” Robbe murmured. “Look after animals?”

Sander shrugged. “Maybe. It’d be nice, I think…teaching Care of Magical Creatures, or something like that. Then I could stay at Hogwarts.”

“Me too,” Robbe whispered. “I’ve always thought I’d wanted to teach, just so I could stay at Hogwarts.”

“What would you teach then? I bet you could teach anything, mister prefect, mister straight-O’s-on-his-O.W.L.’s—”

“I didn’t get straight O’s!” Robbe protested.

Sander snorted a laugh through his nose. Robbe pushed him. Sander pushed back, letting Robbe manhandle him to the ground.

Something broke in his brain: the sight of Robbe’s face, smiling innocently down at him as he straddled Sander’s hips, was too much for him to bear.

“What are you planning?” Sander narrowed his eyes, unable to resist taking Robbe by the waist, running his thumbs over sharp hipbones. 

Robbe settled his weight on Sander’s lap, his expression half-playful, half-surprised, like he still couldn’t quite believe the effect he had on Sander.

“Wait,” said Sander. 

With tremendous effort, he pushed Robbe off of him. Sander flicked his wand, summoning pillows, more blankets. 

In his hands was a small, unassuming glass jar. Sander tapped it with his wand, and a little fire grew inside it. He met Robbe’s eyes over the rim. In the firelight, Robbe’s eyes were huge and dark, the fringe of his eyelashes casting long shadows over his cheeks. 

Sander laid back on the blankets. Robbe curled into him, his head on Sander’s chest. 

Something gold on Robbe’s throat caught the light. A necklace. Sander looped the thin chain gently around his finger.

“A gift from my Mama,” said Robbe. “I never take it off.”

Sander played with the necklace chain, stroking the back of Robbe’s necks, fingers catching in his hair. He remembered what Robbe told him that afternoon in the Owlery: his Mama had been admitted to a mental institution. 

“Why did you really run away last year?” Robbe asked quietly. He sounded as though he’d been working up the courage to ask for a while. “To the Shrieking Shack?”

Sander’s heart seized, painfully. He froze. He was sure Robbe could feel how loud his heart was beating.

Robbe’s eyes lifted to his. Sander forced himself to smile.

“No reason,” he said, kissing Robbe’s forehead until the worried look finally disappeared. “That was just a stupid joke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, thank you all so much for the amazing feedback on the first chapter. wow wow wow wow. your sweet comments are basically single-handedly getting me through the AGONY wtfock is putting us through rn. i can't wait to see what yall think about chapter two <3
> 
> FYI: this is now going to be five chapters, still with alternating POVS, so chapter three will be robbe again
> 
> as always, comments mean everything to me. you can also find me on tumblr @aholynight


	3. Chapter Three

Robbe was kiss-drunk. 

It wasn’t that Robbe had never been kissed before. He’d made out with Noor four or five too many times at various post-Quidditch match parties in the Common Room, when Noor was still Seeker and Robbe was still the boy who hadn’t _quite_ made the cut. He and Jana had kissed once in fourth-year, as a joke, though Robbe was sure she was just trying to make Jens jealous. Luca had attempted to kiss Robbe more times than he could count, though by now he’d mastered the art of dodging her when she was on the warpath. 

Robbe had figured out he didn’t like girls like _that_ at some point between he and Noor’s first and second kisses. The third, fourth, and fifth times he was trying to be certain. It was Milan who he finally went to once he could no longer deny that he liked boys: Milan used to date a Ravenclaw in the year above him, and Robbe understood now that the little jerk his stomach gave when he saw them wasn’t discomfort, but envy. They broke up after the Ravenclaw graduated, and then Milan moved onto a Muggle boy from his home town who Milan saw during summers and Christmas holiday. After Robbe confided in him, Milan became obsessed with finding him a boyfriend. Robbe entertained only one of these ill-fated attempts: a Slytherin boy in the year above him who was undeniably attractive, dark-haired, lean, completely vain. They kissed once outside the Hog’s Head: it was an alright kiss, as far as kisses went. Certainly it was better than kissing Noor. They even made plans for a second date. But when the boy learned that Robbe was Muggleborn, it was like Robbe seized to exist. The Slytherin boy iced him out in front of the Great Hall, and then never spoke to Robbe again.

None of those kisses had prepared him for Sander.

Robbe was such a scrupulous thing, so wary and cautious, so frugal with himself. The universe—that vast, pulsating space of big things, of romance, glamour, infinity—that was for other people. Robbe thought all he needed was a room of his own, a bed and his books, his Mama, a friend or two. 

Sander shattered that possibility. Sander was an entire galaxy in the shape of a boy. Robbe thought of the deities in the stars, their legacies imprinted in constellation. All those gods and monsters. He thought of his Mama and her bible, all of her prophets and saviors, her holy ghosts. Everything you could not see with your own two eyes, divine things that needed to be touched to believed, held close to your mouth, worshipped, like a rosary.

Kissing Sander was like that. Kissing Sander made Robbe more certain than ever that the world was so much bigger than he could possibly understand: whatever sorcery made Sander possible was a most wicked, most glorious, most sacred kind of magic. Robbe had never felt the need to go with his Mama to church. He had never been able to imagine what that would feel like: to love something so much it brought you to your knees. 

Until Sander.

And Sander knew it. He knew the magnetic power he had over Robbe. That was the sickest part. Sander’s expression—smug, withholding, teasing—as he pulled away, savoring the effect he had on Robbe. 

But what Sander didn’t realize was that Robbe had no shame. He had no use for it anymore. Robbe was nothing if not persistent: all he had to do was make a needy sound, and Sander was rolling him over again, kissing him breathless and bruised, kissing him until he was drunk on it. 

They still had nearly an entire week before Christmas. Six days to kiss in every inch of the castle they pleased. Some times they did things besides kiss: Sander made Robbe listen to every single David Bowie album and regaled him with detailed histories of every single record. They read books to each other in the library in funny voices, as loud as they wanted to, without Madame Pince hovering around every corner. They went to the kitchens for late-night snacks—Sander knew almost every house elf by name, and he’d made each of them tiny hats as Christmas presents. They flew for hours on the Quidditch pitch, racing each other, tossing the Quaffle back and forth. They even raced for the Snitch. Robbe beat Sander at the last second, though he had a nagging suspicion Sander had let him win.

During the early morning Sander liked to take Robbe to the clearing outside Hagrid’s hut to feed the hippogriffs. After breakfast Robbe took Sander to the greenhouse, and magicked a string of flowers to put in Sander’s hair. In the evenings they traded off nights in the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff common rooms, toasting treats over the fireplace and feeding them to each other, sticky-sweet on their fingers. 

Sometimes Sander disappeared, for hours on end. He never explained where he went: he would reappear hours later, slip a hand over Robbe’s eyes and whisper _surprise_ low and hot in Robbe’s ear, sending a shiver down Robbe’s spine. During these disappearances, Robbe would work on Sander’s Christmas present in the library. Occasionally he ran into Yasmina, who had decided to stay at Hogwarts over the holiday while her family traveled.

“What are you working on?” asked Yasmina.

Robbe startled, looking up. He’d been wearing Sander’s headphones. He slung them around his neck. Bowie played through the speakers. 

“Sorry—” said Robbe, quickly. “I thought you were Sander.”

“And that would be a bad thing?” Yasmina asked, her eyebrow quirked.

Robbe blushed. He scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly. Yasmina grinned, sitting cross-legged opposite him.

“I’m working on his Christmas present,” Robbe admitted. “I think I know how I can do it. I just thought I’d do a bit more research. See if I can find anything else to help.”

“So you guys are pretty serious, huh?” said Yasmina.

Robbe bit his lip, shrugging. Nothing felt like more of an understatement than _pretty serious._

“You know, Britt and Sander were pretty zero to a hundred, too.”

Robbe’s brow knit. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean…” Yasmina searched for the right words. “Just be careful. Take it slow, take it easy, you know?”

“But…” There was no taking it easy with Sander. Robbe didn’t think he would even know where to start. It was everything, or nothing. 

“Look, I’m not saying, you know, that this is just infatuation, or something,” said Yasmina. “I’m just saying that he and Britt moved way too fast, and look what happened to them.”

“I don’t know what happened to them,” said Robbe. He wished he didn’t sound quite so wounded, but he couldn’t help it. Robbe and Sander had spent nearly every hour of the past week together. But now he couldn’t help but wonder about how little he knew about Sander. Britt had been such a huge part of Sander’s life, after all, and now almost all she talked about was how much she hated him. Sander, on the other hand, never spoke about Britt at all.

“Look, maybe it’s different,” said Yasmina. “Just…just look after yourself, okay?”

Robbe was still thinking over what Yasmina said for the rest of the afternoon. It was evening by the time he saw Sander again, waiting for him outside of the Great Hall for Christmas Eve dinner. 

Sander was wearing a cream-colored sweater, the collar gaping enough to reveal the sharp bow of his collarbone. His white-blonde hair was tousled, and his skin was honey and gold in the candlelight outside of the Great Hall, his cheeks pink, like he’d just been outside in the cold. He was so pretty it was almost obscene. No one had ever looked more deserving of a kiss. 

So Robbe kissed him. He didn’t give Sander a chance to even say _hello._ There were a scattering of other students milling about, and some professors entering the Hall for dinner, but Robbe didn’t care who saw them. He didn’t care about anything but Sander’s perfect mouth against his, Sander’s hands on him, one on his hip, the other cradling the hinge of Robbe’s jaw.

_Fuck_ going slow. 

“What was that for?” Sander smiled against his mouth. 

“Do I need a reason to kiss you?” said Robbe, running his thumb over the smooth curve of Sander’s cheek.

Something moved in Sander’s eyes—a glimpse of melancholy that darted away as quickly as it came. 

But before Robbe could say anything more, Sander brought Robbe’s knuckles to his mouth and kissed them, grinning, and dragged Robbe into the Great Hall.

Christmas Eve dinner was not the elaborate feast Sander assured him they’d be receiving the next evening for Christmas Day, but it was still more delicious than the takeout boxes he was accustomed to at home with his Mama for the holidays. Crowding the long tables were buttery crusts of pie, spilling over with meat and gravy and vegetables, heaping piles of potatoes, trays upon trays of sugared fruits and chocolates for dessert. While most people sat at their usual tables, Robbe sat with Sander at the Gryffindor table, half in his lap, laughing as Sander put his hand over his eyes and fed him various items off the table. He insisted Robbe guess what they were, rewarding him with kisses for every correct answer.

Once they couldn’t eat a bite more, Sander put his lips to Robbe’s ear and said, “Since you’ve been such a good boy, I think you can have your first present early.”

Robbe’s cheeks burned. “My first?” he said, congratulating himself for keeping his voice steady. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that Sander calling him _good boy_ had such a ruinous effect on him.

“Your first,” Sander confirmed, kissing Robbe gently behind his ear. 

Robbe let Sander lead him up the stairs, all the way to the seventh floor. They stopped in front of an empty wall. He looked around, confused. There was nothing there except a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to dance ballet.

He turned to Sander, who had his eyes screwed shut, as if he were deep in concentration.

And then, out of nowhere, a door materialized in the wall opposite Barnabas’s tapestry.

Sander lifted his chin in the direction of the door. “Go on, then,” he said. “Open it.”

Robbe opened it. 

It was him. Robbe closed his eyes then opened them again. There he was, in charcoal, in profile, head-on. There he was in acrylic paint, in shimmering, still-wet smears of oil, in dreamy watercolor, his head bent over a book in the library, the sun setting in brilliant technicolor behind his head in the Three Broomsticks, in jagged streaks of daylight under a cluster of mistletoe. There they were on a hippogriff’s back, sailing over the glassy surface of the Great Lake, Hogwarts reflection glittering upside-down beneath them. There they were beneath the stars, their heads in the crooks of each other’s arms, unable to tear their eyes from each other.

“I—” Robbe didn’t think he could speak. “ _Sander._ ”

Sander’s lip was between his teeth. He looked proud and shy and giddy and nervous, chewing on the corner of his lip. “Is it alright? I know it’s—it’s a lot—”

Robbe fisted the front of Sander’s sweater, cutting him off with a kiss: clumsy, needy. Sander nearly tripped over a nearby easel as they crashed backwards, and they both collapsed in laughter, still trying desperately to kiss each other. Robbe backed Sander into the wall, his hands sliding under Sander’s sweater. His skin was warm, soft to the touch. Where did this boy come from? How had Robbe gone his entire life until this point without touching him?

“I can’t believe you did all of this,” Robbe whispered. His forehead fell against Sander’s chest. “For _me—”_

“Anything for you,” Sander whispered back.

Robbe looked down. He didn’t think he could look at Sander’s face. He didn’t trust himself. Sander could ask anything of him in that moment, anything at all, and Robbe would’ve done it in a heartbeat. Robbe had drifted through life for so long, unnoticed, and now here was Sander: he didn’t just notice Robbe, he put him at the center of his world.

“Should we go to yours?” said Sander. “Please say we’ll go to yours.”

“We’ll go to yours,” whispered Robbe, teasing, breaking off in a laugh when Sander’s teeth nipped at his neck. 

It was dark in Robbe’s room, the four beds bare save for Robbe’s. Sander waved his wand. One by one the candles flickered to life, bathing the room in orange light. It smelled like spice and pomegranates, woodsmoke and pine, Mandarin orange. Sander flicked his wand at the fireplace, and the embers began to spit, sparking into flame.

Robbe swayed a little on his feet. He didn’t know desire could feel like this: bone-deep, feverish, almost sick. He hadn’t had anything to drink at dinner, but his head swam, hazily, helpless to the narcotic hold Sander had over him. Sander wasn’t moving, wasn’t saying a word: just the fact of him in Robbe’s room was enough to scramble the wires in Robbe’s brain.

Wind gently rattled the window, a draft briefly lifting their hair. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fireplace. Their ragged breathing.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Robbe.” Sander’s voice was no more than a rough rasp of syllables. 

A wire snapped in Robbe’s brain. He didn’t trust himself to speak, or move, even to breathe. He felt Sander’s fingers cradle his face, lifting it to be kissed. Robbe’s eyes were closed. He could feel Sander, a breath away. 

Only Sander didn’t kiss him. Instead he felt Sander’s fingers on the hem of his sweater. Robbe’s arms lifted above his head, obliging. His bedroom was cold. The fire Sander lit in the hearth hadn’t quite warmed the room yet. Goosebumps prickled along Robbe’s skin, everywhere Sander’s fingers brushed. Robbe’s head bowed. He heard the soft sound his sweater made as it hit the floor, his torso bare to Sander’s touch. 

“Look at me,” Sander whispered. “Robbe, look at me.”

Robbe finally opened his eyes. Sander’s pupils were blown, searching Robbe’s face, hungrily, and for some reason this ruined Robbe worse than anything else: Sander looking at him like he was the only thing in the world.

“Kiss me,” Robbe begged, “ _please—”_

That was all it took. Sander closed the gap between their mouths roughly, artlessly, his fingers fumbling for the zipper on Robbe’s jeans. Robbe’s fingers bit deep into Sander’s shoulders as he was undressed and kissed within an inch of his life. He felt himself becoming more and more horizontal, backed into his bed, his limbs rearranging themselves to make room for Sander. Sander stared down at him. 

There was something about the sight of Sander bearing over him—lean and rangy as a wolf, still dressed while Robbe was totally bare beneath him—that made all the blood in Robbe’s body rush southward. Robbe was so turned-on he could barely think. 

Sander’s eyes made a lazy, deliberate journey from the taut, trembling planes of Robbe’s stomach to the quick, heaving flutter of his chest to his swollen mouth.

Robbe had enough. He leaned up on his elbow and yanked Sander down by the collar of his sweater. Sander’s teeth sank into his bottom lip, and Robbe’s mouth parted, gasping, his knees parting to make room. He tore at Sander’s sweater until Sander finally ripped it off of himself with a careless, urgent gesture, and Robbe splayed his hands on the gorgeous torso unveiled to him, kissing every part of Sander he could reach. 

Sander’s fingers tugged at Robbe’s hair until his throat was bared. Robbe’s mouth fell open, as Sander’s mouth moved from his lips to his jaw, then his neck. One of Sander’s hands slid underneath Robbe’s ass, and a sharp, almost unbearable thrill gripped Robbe’s stomach. He was so turned-on it almost _hurt_.

“Off,” Robbe insisted, pulling at the zipper of Sander’s pants, “take these off—”

Sander fumbled to obey, quickly shoving his pants down until they were tangled around his ankles. He leaned down to untie his shoes, half-groaning, half-laughing in irritation at how difficult it was.

“ _Stupid shoes—”_ Robbe muttered, reaching down to help him, and both boys tumbled off the bed in a clumsy tangle of limbs, still reaching for each other. Sander kissed him upside-down, laughing triumphantly into Robbe’s mouth when he finally managed to yank off his combat boots, and Robbe manhandled him back onto the bed. 

Miles of skin lay bare to him on Robbe’s bed, molten-gold. Sander’s eyes were all heat, serpentine-green and dark-lashed, his hair like snow against Robbe’s dark pillows. Robbe dragged his hips against Sander’s, reveling in the way Sander’s eyes fluttered shut, blissed-out and tempting and entirely his. The friction was almost unbearable. Robbe felt his body unspooling and re-spooling constantly, negotiating with every hot open-mouthed kiss and agonizing roll of hips: how far would this go? His body was nothing more than a shock and sizzle of nerve endings, everywhere his skin met Sander’s.

His hands roamed down the lean, sinewy muscle of Sander’s abdomen. His pelvis rocked against Sander’s, pressing tightly until Sander scooped Robbe around the waist and flipped them over.

Robbe fell back against the pillows. Sander’s breath was hot against neck, sucking a deep purple bruise into the skin. Robbe panted desperately, his hands grabbing for any part of Sander he could reach.

“Can I touch you?” Sander panted into his mouth. For all of his rough kisses, Sander’s touch on his cheek was gentle, as if Robbe might break at any moment. 

“ _Please_ —” Robbe breathed. Sander’s hips rocking against Robbe as his hand worked between them. 

A soft, humiliatingly plaintive noise fell from Robbe’s mouth, and together they came fast, barely lasting a minute. Sander muffled a laugh into Robbe’s shoulder—equal parts elated and embarrassed by how briefly they’d both lasted. Weak-limbed and grinning, Robbe dragged Sander to his mouth.

This kiss wasn’t like their other kisses. They weren’t starving any more. This kiss was tender: the barest brush of lips. Sander’s fingers were light on Robbe’s cheek. They trailed down his throat, playing gently with the thin gold chain pooling between the knobs of Robbe’s collarbones. 

After a few minutes, Sander went to the bathroom to clean himself off, returning with a wet cloth for Robbe. Neither of them spoke. Though they’d spent most evenings together, they had yet to actually spent the entire night together in the same bed.

Robbe went under the covers, pulling back the blanket to make room for Sander. There was a long moment where neither of them moved, shy about how to proceed, until Robbe finally turned over, presenting his back to him.

Sander put a hand on Robbe’s hip, scattering kisses over the nape of his neck and the bare curve of his shoulder before finally settling in behind him, spreading a hand over Robbe’s stomach.

Robbe’s fingers closed over Sander’s, and Sander leaned over him to grab his wand. With a flick, the lights were off, and within minutes their breath slowed into sleep, Sander’s lips in Robbe’s hair, curled around him like a shell. 

—

A beam of sunlight woke him up. Robbe reached instinctively for the body beside him, still half-asleep.

No one was there. 

Robbe jerked awake. He sat up.

“Sander?” Robbe called out. 

Nothing. 

Robbe wrapped a sheet around his waist, tripping clumsily on his abandoned sweater. 

“Sander?” he called out again.

He checked the bathroom first, but it was as empty as his room. He tugged a shirt over his head and pulled on sweatpants. He went to the window, cupping a hand over his eyes. Fresh snow blanketed the grounds outside. Some of the first and second-years were launching snow balls at each other. He squinted into the distance, hoping to see Sander leaving the Forbidden Forest, as he had so many mornings before. No one came.

Robbe pulled on his sneakers and ran downstairs to the Common Room.

The sight he found made him skid to a stop. A giant tree glittered in the center of the room, stretching all the way to the tall ceiling. At its feet were several packages, festooned in ribbons. 

A smile began to spread across his face. He’d nearly forgotten. 

It was Christmas Day.

Robbe knelt beside the tree, picking up the first package. There was one from Jens, another from Jana. He saw a small package from Yasmina, an obnoxiously wrapped present from Milan, and a box from his Mama. 

His heart fell, just a little. Nothing from Sander. He looked around the Common Room: candies and peppermints and chocolates wrapped in gold paper were scattered all over the room, overflowing from stockings hanging off the bannisters and spilling over coffee tables and mantelpieces. 

A flicker of movement made Robbe freeze. He was halfway through unwrapping a candy cane when he noticed the tree give a twitch. 

A song began to play out of nowhere. Little Drummer Boy. Robbe’s head turned, startled. It sounded as though it was coming from inside the Christmas tree. 

“ _I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum…_ ”

A voice joined in: hoarse and throaty, a voice Robbe could recognize anywhere. 

“ _That’s fit to give our king, pa rum pum pum pum…_ ”

“Sander….” Robbe shook his head, unable to stop smiling. 

A blonde head poked out from behind the Christmas tree. Robbe shook his head in disbelief. Sander was decked out in a Santa Claus hat and a long white beard. He even had a golden staff. Tucked under his arm was a package nearly as tall as he was, wrapped in brown paper and red ribbons. 

“Have you been a good boy this year?” said Sander, his eyes glittering down at Robbe, who was still kneeling, incredulous, at the foot of the Christmas tree.

“I—” Robbe choked. Sander pulled off the white beard and threw it carelessly behind him, grinning. “What are you—?”

“Well?” Sander cocked his head. 

“Yes?” Robbe laughed weakly.

Sander held out his hand. Robbe let Sander pull him to his feet. 

“Where did you get all this?” Robbe managed eventually, waving at the hat and staff.

“Eh, easy,” said Sander, laughing as Robbe took off his hat and tossed it behind them. “You said you and your Mama didn’t have any Christmas traditions, yeah?”

Robbe’s throat worked. It never failed to unmoor him when Sander recalled some little detail Robbe let slip. He remembered every throwaway comment Robbe made, every word he uttered. 

“Yeah,” Robbe admitted, ducking his head. 

“Well now you do,” said Sander simply. 

Robbe didn’t trust himself to say anything. Instead he reached up on his tip-toes, pressing a kiss against the corner of Sander’s mouth. Sander pulled him close by the hips, hands roaming under Robbe’s t-shirt. 

“Wanna sit on Santa’s lap?” Sander murmured teasingly, bursting into laughter when Robbe pushed him away with a disgusted noise. 

“You’re never wearing that hat again,” said Robbe sternly. “I’m gonna burn it.”

“Ah, so the beard’s okay, then?” Sander lifted an eyebrow. 

Robbe shook his head, rolling his eyes, though he let Sander pull him into his lap. Together they opened Robbe’s presents. Jens got him new Quidditch gloves. There was chocolates from Jana, and new books from Yasmina. He was nervous opening Milan’s present, afraid that the Head Boy had gotten him something magenta, but instead there were tasteful new robes in surprisingly muted colors. His Mama didn’t have much money, so she wrote him a long letter. Enclosed in her box was a hand-knitted scarf, hat, and gloves.

“And now mine,” said Sander. He and Robbe had to sit on the floor to open it. 

They ripped off the brown paper. Robbe felt tough bristles under his fingers, then smooth wood.

“Sander, you didn’t,” said Robbe.

Sander was sitting cross-legged. He put his cheek on his fist, smiling up at Robbe innocently. 

It was a new broomstick. Robbe ran his hands over it, reverently, hardly daring to touch it. 

“Sander, tell me you didn’t actually get this for me,” said Robbe again, still in disbelief. This must’ve cost Sander every galleon he had. 

“You said you’ve been riding Jens’s old broom,” said Sander, shrugging casually, as if that were enough reason to buy him a _brand new broom._

“But Sander,” Robbe protested. “It’s too much. It’s too expensive.”

“Nothing’s too expensive for you,” said Sander, taking Robbe’s hands into his. “You’re worth everything.”

Robbe shook his head, his smile wobbling. 

“Hey,” said Sander, “Robbe, it’s okay—”

Robbe kissed him before he could say anything else. What had he done to deserve _him_. They stayed wrapped in each other’s arms until the Common Room door creaked open, and the sounds of several new pairs of feet pattering across the floorboards.

“I have something for you, too,” Robbe whispered. “It’s not like…” he gestured at the broom, the candies and chocolates he now realized were Sander’s work too, the costume, all of it. 

“You didn’t need to get me anything,” said Sander, “I have everything I need right here.”

Robbe rolled his eyes. “Come.”

Sander followed Robbe back to his room. The sun was almost blindingly bright now, dazzling on the snow outside. Robbe sat cross-legged on his bed and pulled out a box from underneath. Sander opened the box. Inside was a smaller box.

“Oh no,” said Sander, “is this gonna be one of those Russian nesting doll things, where it’s just a smaller and smaller box each time—”

“Keep going,” said Robbe, with his most innocent smile. 

Sander kept going. He paused when he got to the smallest box: it was too small to be anything but jewelry.

“Are you proposing?” said Sander. “Because I should tell you, even if you are, I’m still going to propose to you too. I’ve already worked out an entire plan—”

“Sander!” Robbe laughed, shaking his head. “Just open it.”

Sander opened it. It was a small gold earring. Sander lifted it to the light. It disappeared from his fingers, invisible.

“What?” Sander’s brow knitted. He turned the earring again, and it reappeared. “What is it?”

Robbe climbed off the bed. It wasn’t actually an earring: it was more like an ear cuff, since it didn’t require a piercing. He hooked it gently onto the shell of Sander’s ear, then tapped it with his wand.

At the same time that the hoop turned invisible, a faint Bowie song began to play. Robbe could barely make out the tinny sound spilling into Sander’s ear. An onlooker would be none the wiser: no headphones, no cords giving Sander away. He could listen to his Bowie anywhere: in class, on his broom, without anyone being able to stop him.

“You made this?” Sander said. 

Robbe bit his lip, nodding. He felt nervous now. He couldn’t tell how Sander was feeling: he wasn’t smiling. If anything he just looked confused, almost _pained._

“ _How_?” said Sander. He pulled the hoop off and lifted it to the light again, marveling. 

Robbe shrugged. “It took a few days of research. I had an idea of how it could work based on some stuff we worked on in Charms this year, but—”

Before Robbe could finish, Sander was backing him into the wall, his hands cupping Robbe’s face, kissing him. 

Robbe ran his fingers through Sander’s hair, making room for him between his legs. “So you like it?” he laughed nervously.

“Robbe,” Sander murmured, his lips in Robbe’s hair. He bowed his head, his forehead falling against Robbe’s. “No one’s ever made me something before.”

“Really?” Robbe couldn’t mask his surprise. 

Sander shook his head. “My parents…they’ve never really known what to do with me. I don’t really speak to them much anymore. I didn’t hear from them at all this Christmas, actually.” 

Robbe’s heart sank. Sander had put all this work into making sure Robbe’s first Christmas at Hogwarts was magical, and meanwhile Sander’s been spending all these holidays alone.

“I mean, I have Senne, the rest of the Quidditch team—they got me things,” said Sander. “Hagrid, too.”

“Britt?” Robbe asked. He felt Sander stiffen. “She never got you anything, when you were together?”

Sander’s throat bobbed. He pulled away from Robbe, sitting at the foot of his bed. Robbe joined him, pulling Sander’s hands into his lap. 

“Oh, you know,” Sander said, trying to sound casual. “Normal stuff. Chocolate. Sweaters I never liked—” Sander laughed, mirthlessly. “Stuff she wanted me to wear.”

Robbe’s mouth twisted. He wished he hadn’t asked. Sander looked so vulnerable, holding the little hoop in his hands. Robbe kissed his cheek. After a long moment, Sander turned into the kiss. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You never have to thank me,” said Robbe.

They spent the rest of the morning with their limbs tangled together in Robbe’s bed, trying out different Bowie songs from the little gold hoop. The day was too beautiful for them to stay cooped up inside, and eventually left for the Quidditch pitch, taking turns on Robbe’s new broom. 

By evening they changed into their best Christmas sweaters and joined the rest of the castle in the Great Hall for the Christmas Day feast. 

It was everything Sander promised it would be. Turkeys too big to be anything but magic. No less than twelve glittering Christmas trees, as tall as mountains, flanked the Great Hall. Everywhere Robbe looked was something new to eat, and at every table setting were glorious Wizard crackers. A third-year sitting at the end of the table nearly got blown up by the firecracker waiting inside his. Robbe’s opened into a sweet little mouse, not unlike the watch-dog Sander had surprised him with, those this one was much gentler. Sander’s was a ridiculous hat, which he promptly put on Robbe and insisted he wear all throughout dinner. 

Robbe accepted every bite Sander offered from his fork. Sander snuck in wine, sharing with everyone seated near them at the table—if the professors noticed they didn’t seem to care, or were too drunk themselves to be bothered. 

The night dissolved into mayhem early: by the end of it, Sander and Robbe were singing Christmas carols with Hagrid, slurring half the words. When Hagrid starting sobbing drunkenly—overwhelmed by the possibility that the Wizard cracker mice might get eaten—Sander and Robbe decided to call it a night.

They crashed in Sander’s room, that night. Robbe loved the Gryffindor common room: everything burgundy and gold, the four-poster beds with velvet tapestries, everything smelling like Sander. Robbe fell asleep with Sander’s head on his chest, his fingers in Sander’s impossibly soft hair, Sander’s gentle breathing lulling him to sleep. Robbe couldn’t stop picturing Sander—this boy who was so impossibly beautiful, so full of life, working so hard to take care of the things he loved—alone at Hogwarts every Christmas.

In the morning, Robbe woke up again to an empty room. 

But this time, folded into a swan on the night table, was a roll of parchment. Robbe opened it, his eyes still blurry with sleep.

“ _I have one last gift for you, Robbe Ijzermans. Come down to the stables when you wake up. Love, Sander.”_

Robbe smiled softly. Even Sander’s handwriting was beautiful. 

He pulled one of Sander’s sweaters and left the Gryffindor Common Room. The stables were near Hagrid’s hut. The grounds were empty this morning: it was colder than it had been on Christmas Day, and the snow was beginning to slush into ice. He followed the path of Sander’s footprints through the snow: they were the only other footprints out there. Even Hagrid seemed to be spending the morning inside. Robbe could see smoke billowing from the chimney and lights in Hagrid’s window, Fang’s nose pressed wetly against the glass. 

Robbe wasn’t entirely positive what this present was going to be, though he had some idea. He’d seen a carriage near the stables just last week, and arranging a horse-drawn carriage struck Robbe as a very Sander sort of present. 

The wooden doors creaked when Robbe opened them. The room was drafty, thick with the smell of hay and horses. Robbe stepped into the room, careful not to spook any of the animals. He spotted Sander’s cream-colored sweater tossed over a nearby stall, and he turned the corner, hoping to surprise him.

His blood froze.

Sander was standing in front of an open cupboard, filled with dusty-looking saddles and reins. Sander’s back faced him. His arms were by his sides, his fists clenching tightly. And cradling his face, thumbs racing greedily over Sander’s cheeks, _kissing him, kissing Sander,_ was Britt.

Robbe stumbled backwards, almost crashing into a feeding trough. He ran backwards, as fast as he could, slipping on ice and hay until he’d made it back to the snow. 

He ran. He ran until he was gasping, his fingers frozen stiff at the castle door he finally reached, slipping uselessly. He didn’t even know where he’d ran to, or what corridor he was on, let alone what floor. He ran until he found an empty classroom, sliding to the floor the second the door closed behind him, burying his face into his knees. 

It was dark by the time Robbe finally left the empty classroom. His knees were liquid, his stomach empty: he’d had nothing to eat all day. He’d barely been able to move. His mind was a film projector, spinning the same reel over and over. 

By the time he made it back to the Hufflepuff Common Room, Sander was already waiting for him outside. His face lit up the moment he laid eyes on Robbe.

Robbe backed away until his fingers felt stone. 

“Where were you?” said Sander, his smile beginning to fade, “Didn’t you get my note? I waited for you all day—”

“Get away from me,” Robbe finally managed.

Sander’s smile fell completely. “What?”

“I said, get away from me,” Robbe repeated, stronger. Sander took a step closer to him. Robbe’s back was already to the wall: there was nowhere else to go. He shoved Sander back the minute he was close enough to touch. “I said _go_ —”

“Robbe—” said Sander, reaching for Robbe’s jacket. “Robbe, wait—”

“Leave me alone!” Robbe shouted, shoving him away.

The wounded look on Sander’s face nearly shattered him. “Did I do something?”

Robbe closed his eyes. The way Sander’s voice shook was almost enough to fool him.

But Sander could not fool him this time. After everything he’d been told, every warning he’d been given about Sander, Robbe had trusted him anyways. Robbe, who had always been so careful, so guarded, who allowed himself almost nothing, had finally opened himself to another person. And Sander had broken him anyways.

“You know what you did,” Robbe said, pushing past Sander, closing the Common Room door behind him before Sander could follow. He fell asleep curled up in a chair in the Common Room, unable to bring himself back to his bed, where everything smelled of Sander.

—

Robbe stayed in his room the next day until he was so hungry he couldn’t bear it anymore. He walked carefully, checking every corner before he walked to avoid running into Sander. He only entered the Great Hall once he was certain Sander was inside. 

Yasmina spotted Robbe as soon as he entered, waving him over. Robbe slid into the seat next to hers. He piled his plate with food. Though he was starving, he picked listlessly at everything, unable to actually swallow any of it.

“Um,” Yasmina started awkwardly. “Good Christmas?”

Robbe’s eyes met hers, briefly, sidelong, before staring down at his plate. He shrugged.

“What happened?” said Yasmina. “Where’s Sander?”

Robbe’s fork fell to his plate with a miserable, ringing clang. A few second-years at a table nearby turned, startled.

“You were right,” Robbe muttered.

“Robbe, I’m always right.” Yasmina took a sip of tea. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Everyone was right about him,” Robbe whispered. He shredded his napkin in his lap. “I just didn’t listen.”

It had been so easy, in hindsight. Robbe made such a perfect target: quiet Robbe, so hungry for affection, so easily deceived. Sander hadn’t even had to bait him: all it took was one look from those green eyes, one glimpse of that smile, and Robbe had swam straight for his hook. 

“What are you talking about?” said Yasmina.

“I saw him kissing Britt yesterday,” Robbe finally managed. “In the stables.”

Yasmina started to laugh, though it faded quickly at the look Robbe gave her. 

“Robbe,” Yasmina said gently. “Britt’s at home with her family. You know that. You saw her leave on the train.”

“She must’ve come back early,” Robbe stabbed angrily at the eggs on his plate. “I know what I saw, Yasmina.”

Yasmina raised an eyebrow. “Robbe, you know as well as I do there’s only one train to Hogwarts.”

Doubt began to fracture Robbe’s certainty. 

“But….” Robbe’s voice was small. “But I saw it.”

She shook her head. “Oh, Robbe.”

“What?”

“The stables, you said? That’s where you saw them?”

Robbe nodded, feeling more lost than ever.

“Did you happen to see an open cupboard nearby?”

Robbe tried to think. “I…I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

“Robbe, there’s a boggart in there. Hagrid’s been trying to get it out for weeks.”

“A boggart?”

Yasmina nodded. 

“But—” Robbe closed his eyes. He put his face in his hands. _A boggart._ He’d spent the past twenty-four hours losing his shit over a fucking _boggart._  


His fingers curled in his hair, punishingly tight. All he could see was Sander’s face last night, his expression so lost and wounded. He must’ve hurt Sander so badly. 

“Wait a second,” said Yasmina. “That means Sander’s boggart is Britt?”

Robbe sat up. He’d been agonizing so much over hurting Sander that he hadn’t even stopped to consider the fact that Sander’s boggart was his ex-girlfriend.

He ran from the table without finishing his meal. He went to the Gryffindor Common Room first, begging the Fat Lady to let him inside, though of course she refused him. Next he ran to Hagrid’s. Then the hippogriff enclosure. He tried the Quidditch pitch, the kitchens, the Astronomy tower. 

Sander was nowhere to be found. 

Then he remembered the Room of Requirement.

Robbe raced to the seventh floor, skidding to a stop when he reached the Barnabas tapestry. He knew the rules: you had to think of what you needed, in as clear of terms as possible. 

He closed his eyes. _Art studio._

Robbe opened them. The wall remained a wall. He thought of every version of _art studio_ he could come up with.  


The door never materialized. Robbe fell asleep outside the wall, hoping he might run into Sander when he finally left. But morning came and went. In the early afternoon, the train was scheduled to arrive. Defeated, Robbe slumped back to the Hufflepuff Common Room. He barely stirred for the rest of the day, even when Jens and Moyo and Aaron came crashing into the room, staggering under the weight of their trunks, spilling over with stories from their holiday breaks, pouring candy from the trolley cart onto the foot of Robbe’s bed.

Robbe tried his best to put on a brave face. He laughed at the right times, interjected the necessary commentary, made jokes of his own. Eventually Moyo and Aaron fell asleep, snoring loudly. Robbe saw a silhouette move across the room before a weight settled at the foot of his bed. 

“So are you gonna tell me how your break _actually_ went?” whispered Jens, elbowing Robbe into a sitting position. 

Robbe sighed and obliged. He told Jens everything: the kiss in the Shrieking Shack, the Astronomy tower, Christmas Day. The boggart. How stupid Robbe had been. How careless. How hurt Sander must be—how Robbe was certain he’d fucked it all up, irrevocably. 

“Wait a second, wait a second: so Britt is Sander’s _boggart?_ That’s…fucked,” Jens muttered.

“Yeah…” Robbe whispered, hugging his knees to his chest. 

“I mean…she wasn’t the best girlfriend I guess, we fought a lot, but—to actually be scared of her? That seems a little crazy, don’t you think?” said Jens.

Robbe shrugged. 

“I mean, from what Britt says, Sander actually is a bit psycho,” said Jens, quickly adding, “No offense,” when he saw Robbe flinch. “According to Britt he would break up with her all the time for no reason and then beg her to take him back. Fuck with her head, you know. He would do all kinds of wild shit—she stuck with him through everything, and he still broke up with her in the end.”

Robbe fell back into the pillows, feeling more fucked-up than ever. Jens patted his face, gently. “Hey man. Look—if you ask me, Britt’s probably exaggerating. I did date her, after all. The thing about Britt is that she likes to feel needed. She feeds on that. I think it makes her feel powerful, or something, being with someone who needs her, who relies on her…that’s why we didn’t work, in the end. So who knows.”

After offering a few more reassurances, Jens went to bed. Robbe closed his eyes, begging for sleep, but he couldn’t turn off his mind. At the earliest glimpse of sunrise, Robbe went to the window, curling up in his usual spot with a cup of tea. 

He nearly dropped it.

There, emerging from the forest, combat boots trailing through the snow, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, was Sander. 

Robbe was on his feet in an instant. He pulled on the closest clothes he could find and raced down the stairs, running through the hallway, terror and elation warring inside his ribcage. 

He found Sander at the front steps.

“Sander!” Robbe called out, nearly slipping on a puddle of melted ice. “Sander, wait!”

Sander kept walking, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. His combat boots were caked with mud and snow. 

“Sander!” Robbe chased him down, grabbing the back of Sander’s jacket. 

Sander spun around, genuinely startled. He tapped his ear. Robbe heard the faintest sound of music come to a stop. His heart stuttered. Sander had been listening to his present.

But as soon as Sander saw who he was, the startled look dimmed to a cold aloofness. Sander looked once, his expression icy, at the hand Robbe still had on his jacket, until Robbe released it, his heart slamming against his chest.

“Sorry,” said Robbe. Suddenly every word he’d been planning to say died on his lips. He’d never seen Sander look like this before. There were deep shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping. The look in his eyes was cool and forbidding, daring Robbe to say another word. 

And then Sander turned and began walking again, as if Robbe were a fly he’d swatted away, as if he meant nothing. 

A lump rose in Robbe’s throat. “Sander!” he called out again, “Sander, please—please just let me explain.”

Sander’s shoulders stiffened. He stopped walking. 

“Five minutes,” Sander said finally, without turning around.

An entire avalanche of breath crashed through Robbe’s body, relieved. Robbe closed his eyes. He’d missed the sound of Sander’s voice, even like this, chilly and remote. There was still a chance—if he could just get it right. 

Robbe approached Sander carefully, as if Sander were one of Hagrid’s willful, wild animals. Robbe stood right in front of him, trying not to lose his nerve at the stony look Sander gave him.

“Remember that first Quidditch match?” said Robbe, “When I fell off my broom—and you—you brought me that card. With the flowers inside.”

Sander’s eyes remained fixed on his, blank and indifferent. Robbe steeled himself, continuing.

“I couldn’t believe they were yours. I spent days working through every possible person who might’ve given them to me. But I never once really allowed myself to think it was you. And not because of all the rumors I’d heard, or the stuff I’d heard Britt say—”

A muscle jumped in Sander’s jaw, his fists clenching tight by his sides.

“It wasn’t because of that, Sander. It was because I thought there was no way someone like you would—would ever—” Robbe broke off, trying to find the right words. “I mean, the possibility that you even knew my _name_ was unthinkable to me.”

Sander stared across the snowy grounds, something complicated moving in those green depths. Robbe pushed forward.

“Sander, I like you so much. It—it terrifies me. All you did for me these past few weeks—that first kiss, in the Shrieking Shack, all your art, everything you did for me on Christmas—no one’s ever done anything like that for me before. Let alone someone like _you_. I mean, look at you.” Robbe gave a helpless, broken sort of laugh. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he saw the ice in Sander’s expression melt, ever so slightly.

“I think I was…just holding my breath or something. Waiting for you to…I don’t know, figure out I’m—” Robbe swallowed hard. “I’m just me. Just Robbe. I’m nobody special. And so when I saw you with Britt—and I know it wasn’t real, I know that now, I do, okay?—but when I saw that, I couldn’t even think. This whole thing between us—it’s been like a fairy tale, like some sort of wild dream I knew I’d have to wake up from eventually. And when I saw that kiss—that was all it took to break me.”

“Why didn’t you just _trust_ me?” Sander finally spoke, his voice no louder than a rasp. A lump rose in Robbe’s throat. 

“I don’t know,” Robbe’s voice broke. “Sander, I’m sorry. I should’ve—I should’ve asked, I should’ve let you explain—”

Sander looked away, fiercely. Even like this, he was so stunning beautiful. 

“Please,” said Robbe. “Please let me try again.”

Sander’s eyes finally locked onto his. The look he gave Robbe was painfully raw. An ache opened inside of him.

“Please,” Robbe whispered again.

Sander took a step forward. Then another, and another, until his mouth was an inch away from Robbe’s. Robbe wanted him so much he couldn’t breathe. 

But he forced himself to stay still, waiting, entirely at Sander’s mercy. He worked up every remaining shred of bravery he had and lifted his eyes to meet Sander’s. 

“It wasn’t a dream,” said Sander. “Believe me, Robbe.”

Robbe nodded, fervently. “I do. I do believe you—”

“You trust me?” 

“Yes,” Robbe breathed. “Yes. Yes, Sander, I—”

Sander captured him in a kiss, cutting Robbe off. Robbe couldn’t hold back any more. He flung his arms around Sander’s shoulders, his stomach swooping as Sander kissed him so hard he thought he might lift him off the ground. They stopped kissing only when a professor threatened them with detention. They chased each other to the seventh floor, stumbling, unable to stop grabbing at each other’s clothes, nearly crashing over a painting when the door finally materialized, kissing and kissing until they slid to the floor. 

“Is this where you were?” Robbe whispered, “Is this where you hid?”

Sander nodded. Hours later, they were still laying on the floor in a pile of blankets. Sander’s head was cradled on Robbe’s shoulder, his chin lifted for a kiss. Robbe’s arms were so tight around Sander he was afraid he might’ve been hurting him, but Sander didn’t seem to mind. He snuggled even closer, and Robbe buried his lips in his hair. 

“I discovered this place last year,” Sander whispered. “I just needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to feel safe. And here it was—materializing out of nowhere. I wasn’t even looking for a place to do my art. I just needed a hideaway. But all this material was already in here. It knew exactly what I needed.”

Robbe rested his cheek against the top of Sander’s head, breathing him in. 

“I’m sorry,” Robbe whispered.

“For what?” Sander asked.

Robbe shook his head. He was sorry for so many things: that he had ever doubted Sander, that he had ever once not believed in him. He was sorry that Sander had spent so many Christmases alone. He was sorry about whatever made Sander feel so broken that he needed his own hideaway.

Sander’s eyes were closed. Robbe kissed his cheek. He remembered when he first discovered magic. The things that marveled him most: broomsticks that flew, dishes that cleaned themselves, feathers that levitated on the whims of his wand, centaurs and mermaids and werewolves. But that magic was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the weight of a boy’s head on his shoulder, a boy who looked at Robbe, who saw him, who really saw him, and said, _yes, him. He’s the one._ Magic and reality had always felt like separate universes in Robbe’s mind. Even now, after all these years. He still felt the seams between them. Robbe still felt separate from it all, like he belonged firmly in the world of ordinary things: a tourist in the world of magic.

But Sander dissolved that separation. The border between magic and reality was a beautiful boy with white-blonde hair and winter-green eyes and a touch that brought tears to Robbe’s eyes. If he could hold Sander and be held by him, if he could kiss him, if he could look a boy like Sander in the eye and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was loved, then there was only possible explanation available to him: magic was impossibly, dizzyingly, undoubtedly real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so unbelievably floored and flattered by the response to this fic!! yall are truly the sweetest <3 thank you all so much.
> 
> next chapter will be sander's POV again. and lemme just tell you, after that OHN wtfock gave us....i'm excited to dive into it and also kind of terrified. that boy has suffered so much :(
> 
> ANYWAYS can't wait to hear what you all think of this chapter. as always, feel free to hmu on tumblr @aholynight  
> tumblr post for this chapter can be found [here](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/post/189729443658/this-rough-magic-35-robbe-x-sander)  
> love you guys xx


	4. Chapter Four

It was sixth year, when it started. Sander was in detention, again: he lit a bunch of fireworks on the stairwell in front of the Great Hall to celebrate the end of finals. The Gryffindors had thrown him a massive party for his efforts. The professors didn’t receive it quite so kindly: Sander was given a month’s detention, and this time he wasn’t just helping Hagrid with his creatures. Though his friendship with Hagrid had admittedly started with detention, now Sander volunteered to help Hagrid all on his own. The professors finally caught on that threatening Sander with Hagrid duties wasn’t much of a punishment at all—this time, he was forced to sort out school O.W.L. records in the dungeons, giving Sander a glimpse of exactly the kind of boring office Ministry job he would rather die than take on. 

When he was finally released from detention, he didn’t return to his room. He expected to feel tired, but he’d never felt more awake. His heart raced. He had a million ideas for drawings, each one of them urgent. He spent the night drawing on the Astronomy tower, not sleeping a wink. The next morning he skipped breakfast and went to the Quidditch pitch for practice, flying harder and faster and stronger than he ever had before. That evening he snuck into the kitchens—he’d already charmed the house elves by this point—and brought sacks full of treats back to the Common Room. He refused to let anyone do their homework. Within the hour, another raucous party was in full blaze, Sander at the center of it all: Dionysus, reveling in the carnage of a bacchanal. He was the eye of a storm. A nucleus: every one orbited him, magnetic, defenseless against the sheer force of him. In the middle of the night he snuck into the Hufflepuff Common Room, already well-versed in its secret entranceway, and coaxed Britt awayuntil she joined him in an empty tower, kissing her and then some until the sun rose.

He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop moving. His mind was a train that only raced in one direction.

Before the night was over, Sander took Britt by the hand to the banks of the Great Lake. _It’s not too cold for swimming in winter_ , he insisted, ignoring the terrified look on her face, _Look_. Sander jumped. 

The water enveloped him. The train barreled on. But what Sander didn’t know was the tracks were not infinite. The path would diverge. The train would crash, in a glory of fire. 

And what was left, in the wreckage, was him. Not a god or a merman, but a boy, shivering and sputtering on the banks of a lake that was too cold for swimming in winter. 

—

Sander laid awake for most of the night. Normally sleepless nights like this scared him, an episode seeming all but inevitable. But this particular kind of sleeplessness felt different. 

Robbe hadn’t asked him yet about the boggart. It was only a matter of time before he did. Truth be told, it had surprised even Sander. He wasn’t scared of Britt. He understood now what she was: a girl, a girl who could be kind, a girl who could be beautiful. A girl who fundamentally did not understand him. To her, Sander was a monster. He was a thing that shed his skin a night. A shapeshifter. To her, he was capricious, unsuitable for human companionship. Incapable of loving or being loved. 

After that night by the water—after he was carted away to the hospital wings, mummified in blankets, his skin an unnatural blue-grey—Britt visited him every day. 

He told her no. He told her to leave, please. He told her to stay far away from him.

She told him, what if something happens again? She told him, what if you were alone, what if I hadn’t been there? What would’ve happened? Tell me, Sander, what would’ve happened?

She had saved him. That’s what she told everybody: Sander could see it in the pitying looks people gave him. They knew. They knew now what he was. 

In the library he found the word. _Bipolar._ That magic word. The word that finally called him what he was, that put a name to him, that made his unfamiliar form familiar to him again. He wasn’t a creature, he wasn’t bad, he was bipolar.

Britt didn’t understand. Everywhere he went, she was there. Making sure Sander didn’t do anything unsafe. Anything crazy. He told her, over and over again: it wasn’t like that. Most days he felt perfectly fine. 

Sander had always been wild. He had always found new clever ways to land himself in detention. He’d always been a little chaotic on the Quidditch pitch. He’d always been drawn to dangerous animals. He’d always lost himself in art. But now everything he did was suspect. Everything he did was the work of some creature inside of him, some unpredictable sleeper agent, some beast. 

When he tried to leave Britt, she didn’t listen. She said she’d wait until he calmed down, and then they would talk like normal people, when he was feeling right in the head again. But the problem was that she never believed Sander was right in the head. She believed that he was damaged, irreparably.

How _brave_ she was. Loving a broken thing like him.

He tried to run. He didn’t want the kind of love she gave him any more. It was making him sick. Some days he clung to her, needing her, grateful that she was there, that she put up with such a cancerous, wretched, ruinous thing as him. Other days a feeble ray of lucidity would pierce the fog, and he would tell her he needed to leave her, that he wasn’t happy anymore, that he needed to be on his own again.

She gave him the same pitying look she always did and said he’d feel better in the morning. Not to worry. She would be there.

So he ran away. He barely even packed a bag. He went to the Shrieking Shack: this, he’d heard, was a home for werewolves, for monsters and beasts and other creatures like him. He slept in a tangle of curtains on the floor, shivering. It was cold and silent and lonely, but at least here he could breathe. His body was his again, not Britt’s, not his mental illness’s, but his. 

It was Senne who found him. Senne had a Muggle father: he knew what bipolar disorder was. Once Sander was released from the hospital wing, Britt was everywhere again. A week later they were in the Great Hall, her arms around his shoulders, showing him off again, like Sander was a pet, some beautiful but defective thing only she was benevolent enough to take home.

It was Senne who finally got through to Britt, after Sander told him, despairing, that she wouldn’t let Sander leave. No matter what he said, she didn’t listen. To this day, he wasn’t sure what Senne had told her. All he knew was he was free now, and that she hated him.

Sander didn’t hate Britt. He wasn’t scared of her, either. He didn’t want Britt to end up alone. He wanted her to find someone she could be good to, who could be good to her. He still remembered some moments with her, beautiful moments, moments when she was intolerably kind to him, when their love was pure and real, before it deteriorated into something sick beyond repair. 

What Sander was scared of was simple. He was terrified of one thing: that Britt’s approach to loving him was the only way he was capable of being loved. A love with conditions. A love that was contractual. A love that wasn’t love at all, because Sander, by definition, could not be loved. Sander thought of Midas, the king who had the power to turn whatever he touched into gold. Sander’s touch was the inverse: whatever he touched, no matter how gently, shattered on contact.

Robbe stirred a little on his chest. Sander carded his fingers through Robbe’s hair. Even in sleep, Robbe clung to him, his arms cocooning Sander’s waist, his head burrowed deep in the crook of Sander’s neck. Sander buried his face in Robbe’s hair, inhaling. It was so soft. It smelled sweet, like him. Sander traced the delicate curve of Robbe’s cheekbone, feeling the familiar itch to draw him. It seemed to occupy most of his thoughts these days, that urge to capture Robbe in ink. He felt like he was building a shrine. Sometimes it scared him, how deep this need was, but he couldn’t be blamed, really. Robbe meant so much more to him than just a pretty face—even if Robbe’s was the prettiest face Sander had ever seen. Robbe was such a precious thing, a rosebud, closed tight. 

But then, miraculously, he’d opened. Robbe had shown Sander all his most tender parts, and they were more beautiful than Sander could have ever imagined. 

Though Robbe’s trust in him had slipped, Sander couldn’t stop thinking about how differently Robbe had handled it than Britt. Britt never trusted him, was the thing: after his first episode, she was convinced that everything he did was the result of his mania. Nothing Sander did belonged to him: everything was mania, everything was suspect, everything was Britt’s to decode as she willed. 

Robbe was different. He made no demands, no assumptions. He didn’t try to break down Sander’s walls: he didn’t presume they were his to break. Robbe had looked so terrified at the possibility of losing Sander, so heartbroken, but he’d been so gentle with him, too. He never presumed to know what Sander was thinking: he simply took what Sander gave him and said that was enough. He let Sander make every decision on his own. He would never forget the look on Robbe’s face, that doe-eyed, fragile look in his eye. The way Robbe crumbled in his arms when he was finally, finally kissed. It was in that moment that Sander swore he would never break him. Robbe’s heart was a gift, given willingly, and Sander was going to treat it so carefully. He would guard it with his life.

—

Robbe was waiting for him after Defense Against the Dark Arts. He let Sander take him by the waist, pulling him close for a kiss. The Quidditch team was right behind him, cooing at them and catcalling—the Chaser girls especially could not stop gushing over how cute they were together. Robbe’s cheeks flooded with color, but he didn’t push Sander away, just hid his face in Sander’s neck, grinning and flustered and embarrassed. Sander knew the attention made Robbe shy, but he couldn’t help himself from kissing him again.

They joined the throng of students heading to the Great Hall for dinner. Sander joined Robbe and his friends at the Hufflepuff table for a while. It was so satisfying to see Robbe in his element like this, surrounded by his friends who clearly loved seeing him happy, despite all their good-natured ribbing.

When Robbe’s friends finally got bored of teasing him, Robbe turned to Sander, threading their fingers together under the table. 

“We have my room tonight,” said Robbe, trying to sound casual. “At least for a few hours.”

“Oh?” Sander quirked an eyebrow, and Robbe immediately blushed. “Why?”

“Because he clearly needs to get laid, that’s why,” said Jens, bursting out laughing after Robbe threw a biscuit at him.

Sander cocked his head at Robbe, grinning cheekily. “How interesting.”

Robbe looked mortified.

“Yeah he was snapping at us all morning,” said Aaron, reproachfully. 

“You took all my notes without telling me!” said Robbe indignantly.

“I needed them for class,” Aaron shrugged.

“ _I_ needed them for class!” Robbe threw his hands in the air.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Jens cut him off, “the boys and I will be in the library.”

“But you never go to the library—” Robbe protested.

“You’re welcome,” Jens said pointedly to Robbe. He patted Sander on the shoulder and left with a wink. 

Sander laughed at how red Robbe’s cheeks were.

“Oh, shut up,” said Robbe, shoving Sander until he nearly fell off the bench. 

“Aww,” said Sander, pulling a face. “Snappy, aren’t you?”

Robbe buried his face in his hands, groaning loudly. Sander pulled him off the bench, peeling Robbe’s hands away from his face to kiss his cheeks, still-pink. Sander dragged Robbe to the Hufflepuff Common Room, still teasing him. When they arrived, Robbe immediately collapsed on the bed, face-down.

Sander straddled the small of Robbe's back. Robbe opened his mouth, as if prepared to complain, until Sander smoothed his hands over Robbe’s back, hushing him.

“You seem tense, baby,” said Sander.

“Don’t call me baby,” said Robbe, flushing even redder than he had before.

Sander smiled wickedly. His fingers crawled up the back of Robbe’s sweater, admiring the strength of Robbe’s shoulders under all that smooth skin. He leaned close to Robbe’s ear. 

“ _Baby,_ ” he whispered. Robbe’s eyes fluttered shut, and Sander filed that trick away in the increasingly long list of things that turned Robbe on, whether Robbe would ever admit them or not.

Robbe twisted under him, whining a little, under Sander lifted his hips enough so that Robbe could turn over, facing him. Robbe reached for the collar of Sander’s leather jacket and tugged him down, kissing him hungrily until Sander had settled between Robbe’s legs, his hand sneaking down the back of Robbe’s pants.

“Wait, wait, wait—no,” said Robbe, pushing Sander off him. “We’re studying. Study first.”

Sander, in what he believed was a herculean display of strength, rolled off the bed, obliging. 

“Fine,” said Sander, “but I’m taking all my clothes off.”

“No you’re not,” said Robbe, “that would defeat the purpose.”

“How?” said Sander. “We can still study. We’ll just be naked.”

“I can’t study if you’re naked,” Robbe protested.

“Why not?” said Sander innocently.

“Because _you,_ ” said Robbe, tugging the front of Sander’s jacket again, “are a workplace distraction.”

Sander captured Robbe’s mouth in a kiss, appreciating the soft, needy whine Robbe made. He could never get tired of that sound.

He promised Robbe an hour. 

“Two,” Robbe bargained, squirming a little as Sander’s fingers began to trail down his spine again towards his waistband, “okay, okay, _fuck, Sander—_ okay, _one hour—_ ” Robbe gasped, “are you sure you’re not meant to be in Slytherin?”

Sander just grinned. Robbe confined him to Jens’s bed—he didn’t trust Sander on the same bed as him. 

After thirty minutes, Sander was already dying of boredom. He began throwing nearby items at Robbe, whatever he could get his hands on: a sock, a quill, a packet of biscuits.

“Throw one more thing at me and see what happens,” Robbe warned.

Without skipping a beat, Sander launched a chocolate frog at him, narrowly missing Robbe’s ear. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. A Cheshire-cat grin grew slowly across Sander’s face as Robbe blinked slowly at the fallen frog, and then, with a long-suffering sigh, moved his quill and parchment aside. 

Sander got off Jens’s bed. Robbe watched him, warily, as Sander crossed the room until his mouth was inches from Robbe’s. 

“You talked such a big game a minute ago, making threats,” said Sander. “What ever happened to _see what happens,_ huh?”

“Sander,” Robbe whined, unable to hide the need from his expression. His eyes were fixed on Sander’s mouth. 

“Yes, Robbe?” Sander quirked an eyebrow, lowering himself until he was braced on top of Robbe, marveling at the way Robbe melted, loose-limbed, beneath him. “Something to say?”

Robbe closed his eyes, his throat working. Sander’s fingers idled at Robbe’s waistband until Robbe finally surrendered, covering Sander’s hand with his own, encouraging him further. He pressed Sander’s palm down, hips jerking inadvertently. 

Sander took Robbe’s hand and pinned it to the bed. Robbe made a sweet, unthinking sound that drove Sander wild.

“Do you want it?” Sander whispered.

Robbe turned his face into the bed, nodding jerkily. 

“You have to say it,” said Sander, already grinning, just to be an ass.

But Robbe seemed beyond caring. “Touch me, _please—”_

Sander complied, instantly, shoving off Robbe’s pants impatiently. Robbe spread his legs for Sander to fit between them, tearing at Sander’s clothes with desperate urgency. Their mouths met frantically as Sander’s hand moved between the tight friction of their bodies. Robbe’s hips jerked, violently, keening up into the touch. Sander sucked a bruise into his shoulder, and a rough, pained sound spilled from Robbe’s mouth as Sander kissed down his chest, making a slow, tortuous path down Robbe’s taut stomach.

Sander looked up. Robbe nodded, biting savagely into his lip, and Sander continued down until Robbe was shaking, making a mess of them both.

When it was over, Sander kissed along Robbe’s ribcage, admiring the strength of the boy beneath him, compact and elegantly muscled. He scattered kisses over the smooth curve of Robbe’s bicep, the ripple of his abdomen, before his lips finally found Robbe’s again, kissing his bruised mouth slow and sweet and deep.

Robbe fell warm and pliant against him, sated. Sander closed his eyes, relaxing into Robbe’s pillows as Robbe curled into his side, his hair soft against Sander’s neck. He felt Robbe move after a few minutes, opening his eyes to discover Robbe watching him, soft-eyed.

With a languid rustle of sheets, Robbe pushed Sander’s chest until he was completely horizontal on the bed. There was a tentative moment where Robbe searched his eyes, unsure, before hesitantly straddling Sander’s lap with an expression equal parts shy and brave. Sander smiled in a way that was only little wicked and pulled Robbe in by the hips. Robbe curled his arms around his neck, dragging his pelvis against Sander’s. Robbe did it again, again, until Sander bucked beneath him in a sharp, untamed way. He leaned closer until his lips were next to Sander’s ear.

“ _Sander”_ was all Robbe whispered, almost reverently. He ground down again until Sander’s hips were stuttering and he was crying out into Robbe’s throat, his body shaking fiercely until he finally fell slack against the sheets, entirely spent.

Robbe stayed in his lap for a moment longer, breathing him in. Then he fetched supplies from the bathroom and cleaned them both. Sander, for his part, made no move to help. Robbe eventually moved Sander’s arm off his face and kissed his closed eyelids, his cheeks, his swollen mouth, handling him so tenderly that Sander almost couldn’t stand it. Sander wasn’t used to accepting affection like this: offered freely, without conditions, asking nothing of Sander in return. 

The door crashed open. Robbe groaned loudly, burying his face in Sander’s chest. They were covered in the sheets, at least, but that didn’t stop the Jens and Moyo and Aaron giving them shit. Sander couldn’t help but join in when he saw how endearing Robbe looked when he was embarrassed and riled-up. 

Eventually Sander got up to leave. He was still buttoning his pants, halfway out the door when the boys began to applaud him, thanking him for his service. Sander bowed, obliging, ducking with a laugh when Robbe threw his shirt at him.

Sander closed the door, hearing an immediate thump behind him, followed by Jens’ shouting in pain and Robbe laughing, vindicated.

—

The next morning, Sander visited the hippogriffs. 

“Hagrid!” he called out, reaching out to stroke the nearest hippogriff’s beak. He found Hagrid around the corner, sitting on the ground, his eyes wet.

“Hagrid?” Sander lowered his voice, crouching in front of them both, “What’s going on?”

“It’s Wilhelmina,” said Hagrid, blowing his nose loudly. Sander leaned away to avoid the line of fire. “She’s sick.”

“Where is she?”

Sander followed Hagrid’s finger. She was sitting curled up on the ground. 

“She’s sick. She won’t eat anything,” said Hagrid. “I’ve been stroking her all day, trying to get her to eat, but she refuses.”

“Where’s her food?” Sander asked, climbing to his feet. 

He found a bucket of her food at the foot of the tree. 

“You’ve been trying to hand-feed it to her, is that it?” said Sander.

Hagrid nodded, howling another sob into his handkerchief. 

Sander had an idea of what to do. He picked up the bucket by the handle and approached Wilhelmina, who watched him warily from under her wing. 

He placed the bucket about ten feet away from her, not breaking eye contact. Then he backed away.

“Come on, Hagrid,” said Sander, offering his hand. “Up.”

Hagrid looked at his hand doubtfully. 

“Up, up, up,” Sander insisting, refusing to take no for an answer. Finally, he managed to bully Hagrid onto his feet. 

“Where are we going?”

“To your hut,” said Sander, “you’re going to make us both some tea. Let’s go.”

Hagrid looked confused, but he did as Sander said. Sander sat at the window, watching the hippogriffs as Hagrid prepared their tea, still rambling all the while about Wilhelmina’s recent condition. 

Sander took the giant teacup when it was offered and took a sip. He surreptitiously spat most of it back into the cup: Hagrid was many talents, but working in the kitchen wasn’t one of them. 

“Hagrid, come here,” said Sander. “Look.”

He did as Sander asked. Sure enough, Wilhelmina had climbed to her feet and was poking her head into the bucket, picking its contents clean.

Hagrid burst into happy tears. Sander bit back a laugh, patting Hagrid on the shoulder until he finally calmed down. 

“How did you know?” Hagrid sniffled. 

Sander shrugged, dragging his finger around the rim of his tea cup. “Hippogriffs don’t like being pitied. They’re dignified creatures, you know? Plus she probably felt like she was burdening you. She wanted you to know she’d be alright on her own.”

After a few long minutes watching Wilhelmina eat, still sniffling, Hagrid finally sat down at the table opposite Sander. “I was serious when I said you should just stay on with me when you graduate. I’ve already talked to the Headmaster.”

Sander shrugged again, avoiding Hagrid’s eye.

“You’re so good at this, Sander,” said Hagrid seriously, lowering his voice. “You have such incredible instincts for it.”

Sander waved his hand carelessly, dismissing Hagrid the way he always did when someone told him he was talented at something, whether it was art or Quidditch or Transfiguration.

But this time, Hagrid didn’t let him.

“Don’t do that, Sander,” said Hagrid. “I mean it. I wouldn’t trust those animals with anyone else but you.”

Sander swallowed hard, remembering something Hagrid had told him last year, after the Great Lake, after he was discovered in the Shrieking Shack, after everyone learned that Sander was broken. Once the depression hit, Sander could barely standing talking to anyone who wasn’t Senne or Hagrid. He started spending nearly all of his time in the forest with Hagrid and all of his misunderstood magical creatures: they were the only things that made him feel less alone. 

_Maybe you are too big for this world_ , Hagrid told him, when Sander finally broke down in front of him, right there in the very spot he was sitting now. _Maybe they know they’re smaller than you, and they can’t stand it. They have to make you small, too._

It was nearly a year ago since Hagrid told him that, but Sander still thought about it almost every day. It was the thing that finally drew him out of his depressive episode, and he still clung to it when he felt himself beginning to dip.

He stayed with Hagrid until lunch time and left for the Great Hall. Sander spotted Robbe almost instantly: he was wearing one of Sander’s sweatshirts, the cream-colored one. The sight of Robbe in his clothes did something dangerous to him—he had to fight back the urge to whisk Robbe away to some shadowy corner, hidden away, where he could show Robbe just how good he looked in private.

But then Sander saw something that made his stomach twist for a different reason.

Standing opposite Robbe was Britt.

Sander approached, slowly. Britt’s expression hardened the minute she saw Sander coming. She squeezed Robbe on the shoulder, sent Sander one last icy look, and swept into the Great Hall in a swirl of robes. 

Robbe’s face lit up when he saw Sander, easing the tangle of nerves in his stomach. Robbe curled his fingers in Sander’s leather jacket, leaning up on his tip-toes to kiss Sander’s cheek. 

“What was that about?” Sander couldn’t help but ask, jerking his chin in Britt’s direction. 

Robbe’s brow knit. “Oh, Britt?” he asked, looking like a confused puppy. He shrugged. “Just Quidditch stuff.”

Robbe still hadn’t asked Sander why Britt kissing him was his boggart. While Sander liked that Robbe wasn’t pushy, never demanding anything of Sander he didn’t volunteer on his own, it still made him nervous. 

Some of these feelings must’ve been evident on Sander’s face because Robbe kissed his cheek again, running a reassuring hand down Sander’s chest.

Sander snaked an arm around Robbe’s waist and led him into the Great Hall. Robbe joined Sander at the Gryffindor table this time—he wasn’t in the mood for his friends’ teasing that night. At least at the Gryffindor table, Robbe would only have to put up with the Chaser girls’ cooing over how cute he was.

At dinner, Robbe was clinging even harder to him than he usually did. The only time he separated was when Milan came over to whisper something in ear. 

Sander watched them suspiciously. Robbe glanced at Sander quickly, nodding intently at whatever Milan was saying to him. Milan stood up, winked at Sander, then left.

“What was that about?” asked Sander.

“Huh?” Robbe blinked innocently. 

“That,” said Sander, “with the Head Boy.”

Robbe just smiled sweetly at him, running his thumb over Sander’s knee under the table. 

“Careful with that,” said Sander, looking pointedly at Robbe’s hand, which was sneaking further and further up his leg. Robbe did not stop. 

“Alright, enough,” said Sander, squeezing Robbe’s wrist. He stood up. “We’re going. Come,” he said to Robbe, ignoring the other seventh-years’ teasing. 

“I have to study tonight,” Robbe protested, following him out of the Great Hall. He wrapped his arms around Sander’s bicep. 

“And what’s after that?”

Robbe chewed on the corner of his lip, rocking back on his heels. “Prefect stuff,” he admitted apologetically.

“Okay,” Sander shrugged, trying not to look too bothered. He didn’t want Robbe to feel bad about being busy: sixth-year was notoriously difficult, and Robbe was a far more diligent student than Sander ever was, plus he had prefect duties on top of that.

“Meet me in the library after?” Robbe tried, playing with the front of Sander’s jacket. Sander couldn’t help but miss when it was just the two of them alone in the castle, with no one to bother them, no duties to interfere with their time alone.

“Of course,” said Sander, unable to resist pressing his lips against Robbe’s for even a moment longer. Robbe sank into his kiss.

—

The next afternoon, Senne had them running Quidditch drills from lunch until sundown. They had an upcoming match against Slytherin, and Senne threatened to transfer to Durmstrang in the event that they lost, purely out of shame. Despite the cool January air, Sander was drenched in sweat by the end of practice, his shoulders heavy as lead and utterly useless after beating the shit out bludgers for nearly six hours. But it was worth it: Robbe came to watch the second half of their practice, and seeing his face in the stands was enough to keep toughing it out. 

“Shit, Sander,” said Senne, nudging Sander’s shoulder as they made their way to the locker rooms. “I should start paying your boyfriend to watch every practice if it means you play like _that._ You were a beast out there today. Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance.”

Sander ducked his head, flushing a little. It still thrilled him to hear Robbe referred to as his _boyfriend._

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Senne, falling back behind the others. “He’s…you know, he’s a good guy, right?”

“Robbe?” said Sander.

Senne nodded. He had that intent, concerned, almost paternal look on his face that Sander was so fond of, even if Senne’s overprotectiveness irked him sometimes. 

He knew why Senne was asking. After all, it was Senne who found Sander at the Shrieking Shack, Senne who finally broke up with Britt on Sander’s behalf, Senne who made sure Sander ate enough when he was going through an episode, Senne who was first to enter the fight when he heard anyone talking shit about how “psycho” Sander was.

Sander looked over his shoulder. Robbe had left the stands and was waiting at the edge of the Quidditch pitch now. He was wearing Sander’s jacket and a beanie, his soft hair flipping out from beneath the edge. He was the sweetest fucking thing Sander had ever seen.

“He’s an angel,” said Sander.

Senne snorted a laugh. He was well-accustomed to Sander’s romantic pronouncements. 

Robbe was still waiting for them once they left the locker room. Sander hadn’t showered yet, but he’d at least swapped his filthy Quidditch kit for sweatpants and a clean t-shirt.

“Spying on our practice?” Sander joked when he finally caught up to Robbe. “Gonna report all our tricks back to your Hufflepuffs?”

Robbe ignored him, pulling him close for a kiss.

“You don’t wanna do that,” Sander warned, holding up his hands, “I’m still gross.”

“Don’t care,” said Robbe, kissing him anyways. “And besides, you don’t need to worry about showering.”

“Huh?” 

Robbe just grinned at him, smug and self-satisfied. “I have a surprise.”

“A surprise?” said Sander, sneaking his arm around Robbe’s waist. “What kind of surprise?”

Robbe rolled his eyes. “Sander, the whole point of a _surprise_ is that you don’t know what the surprise is—”

“But it’s a surprise that involves showering?” he prodded, just to be a dick. 

“Do you want your surprise or not?” said Robbe, trying to look stern, though the effect was more pouting than anything else.

They kept teasing each other all the way to the fifth floor. Robbe was trying to bite Sander’s neck when Sander noticed the statue of Boris the Bewildered and broke away.

“I know what this is,” said Sander, with a cocky grin.

“No you don’t,” Robbe shut him down. 

“It’s—”

“Shut up.” Robbe put his hand over Sander’s mouth. “Let me surprise you.”

Sander licked Robbe’s palm. Robbe wiped his hand on Sander’s cheek and covered his eyes instead. Turning them both to face the statue, Robbe whispered, “Lemon Juice.”

Though Sander couldn’t see anything, he heard a scrape against the floor. The statue was moving. Robbe guided Sander through the door. 

He could smell it before he saw anything. Fantastic scents: rose oil and citrus, eucalyptus and lavender, chamomile, vanilla. He heard the sound of running water. 

Robbe moved his hand. It was, of course, the prefects’ bathroom.

“You’ve snuck in here before, haven’t you?” Robbe asked dully. 

Sander couldn’t suppress a wicked grin. Of course he had. Some times he didn’t even have to sneak in: Quidditch captains had access too, and Sander had coaxed Senne into letting him in half a dozen times.

Robbe shook his head, though his smile was fond. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re _perfect,_ ” said Sander, pulling Robbe close for a kiss. It was a deep, filthy sort of kiss, his thumbs at the hinge of Robbe’s jaw, his fingers sliding into the thick, soft hair at the back of Robbe’s skull.

Robbe returned to kiss so gently that Sander’s breath caught in his throat.

He almost couldn’t bear how gentle Robbe was with him. Sander began to pull back, but Robbe only came closer, his hands on Sander’s chest. He kissed Sander again: the softest, most tender kiss Sander had ever been given. Sander didn’t know what to do with kisses like these. All he knew was that they ruined him.

“We have this all to ourselves,” Robbe whispered. “Milan helped me arrange it. It’s ours for the night. All of it.”

Robbe tipped his head up to look at him. Sander pressed their foreheads together. 

“Angel,” he said. 

Robbe smiled, a little shyly. Sander began to undress him, slowly, carefully. There were be no tearing of clothes today, no urgency, no rush. Every new limb exposed was a miracle. Sander scattered kisses over Robbe’s shoulders, the crooks of his elbow, his fingers, everything. He turned Robbe around and sucked kisses over each and every vertebrae. 

Then Robbe did the same to him. He stripped Sander with such tenderness and care that it made his knees weak, and then, as if Sander weren’t feeling wrecked enough, Robbe went to his knees. His mouth dragged down Sander’s stomach, mouthing at his hip. Then further.

Sander curled his fingers in Robbe’s hair. Unable to look. Unable to look away. The way Robbe desired him made Sander’s brain short-circuit. Robbe was so brave with him, so vulnerable. He gave Sander so much of himself.

His body went taut as a bow string. When he couldn’t stand it any longer Sander hauled Robbe to his feet and kissed him. 

“I have everything,” Robbe gasped between kisses, “You know—supplies, for—for—”

“Supplies?” Sander bit Robbe’s lip, teasing. 

Robbe was too keyed-up to be shy any longer. He lead Sander to the bath. They turned on every single tap, laughing in delight at the jewel-colored soaps that poured into the bath. It was a deep bath, set into the ground instead of the claw-footed tubs they had in the common rooms. They splashed each other, rubbing bubbles into each other’s hair. Sander reprised a version of his Santa beard with bubbles, cackling as Robbe wrestled onto his back and savagely wiped the foam off his face.

Sander swung Robbe around, swing-dance style, until he was holding Robbe up completely. They were facing each other again, their hair wet and spiky from each other’s fingers, pink-cheeked from the steam and heat. Robbe curled his arms around Sander’s neck. Sander put Robbe on the side of the bath and stepped between his legs on the stairs. 

“You look like a mermaid,” said Robbe.

Sander snorted a laugh into Robbe’s shoulder, reaching behind him for the bottle Robbe had so thoughtfully put there. 

He swallowed every hitch in Robbe’s breath, every hurt sound that metamorphosed into pleasure. When they were ready, he turned Robbe around. They moved together beautifully, too beautifully, like they were designed to come together exactly this way, like they were built for precisely this moment. Sander soothed his thumbs over Robbe’s hips, kissing his shoulder. Robbe’s head fell back against his shoulder, and Sander’s mouth latched onto Robbe’s neck. Robbe reached back, pulling Sander as close as he could. 

It was sublime. Sex had never been like this for Sander. Before it was never more than a bargaining tool, a service, a struggle for power. Penance, _atonement_. Never a gift. 

He needed to see Robbe’s face. They finished like that, clutching each other, his face buried deep in Robbe’s neck. When it was over Robbe kissed him so reverently that it scraped Sander raw from the inside. 

Sander finally opened his eyes. Robbe’s were a little red-rimmed.

They wrapped each other in towels. In the corner was a chaise lounge. Sander collapsed onto it, feeling useless to do much else. Robbe sat in Sander’s lap. 

“Careful,” Sander warned. He was still sensitive down there, but he couldn’t actually bring himself to move Robbe. He was so warm in Sander’s arms. Robbe fit there so perfectly. 

“I love you,” Sander murmured. The words came out half-muffled. He was resting his cheek against the top of Robbe’s head, hugging him tight. 

Robbe lifted his head, meeting Sander’s eyes. His eyes were still wet.

“I love you,” Sander repeated. He ran his fingers along Robbe’s cheek. “You don’t have to say it back, Robbe. But I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Robbe breathed. The smile that broke from his face was the most breathtaking thing Sander had ever seen.

—

The next day, Sander only painted. He had Potions in the morning, but he didn’t care. He played Bowie loud in the Room of Requirement, singing as he recreated the curve of Robbe’s cheekbone, its stunning sinuous perfect shape. He immortalized Robbe’s face in blue and yellow and pink, in the jewel-colored paints that resembled the bath oils pouring from the taps. He drew them as mermen, meeting in the great green deep, bubbles fizzing from their hair, swaying like seaweed. In the afternoon he had Transfiguration, but he skipped that too. He left only to find Robbe after dinner in the Great Hall, scooping him into his arms, nearly lifting him off the ground. His elation was so huge that for a moment, the briefest spark of a moment, it felt like terror.

—

It was midnight.

He couldn’t sleep.

—

It was two AM.

His blood felt too-hot, scary-hot. He went to the window, but even the cool air felt hot to him.

So Sander got dressed, and he returned to the Room of Requirement. His paintings could move: there was he and Robbe, a live kiss, under the great lake, a school of fish swirling around them. There was Robbe, mid-laugh. Sander could hear it. It sounded so real.

But it wasn’t real enough. Sander needed more. He envisioned art made of fire, art bigger than the canvas, art that could play across the sky.

Robbe was an angel. His image belonged among the stars.

—

“Robbe,” Sander whispered.

Robbe’s eyes fluttered open. He inhaled, sharply, lips parting as if to scream, but Sander pressed a hand over his mouth. He relaxed as soon as he saw it was Sander, though he still looked confused about why exactly Sander was in his Hufflepuff dormitory.

“Sander?” Robbe whispered. Both of them turned. Jens had flipped over onto his stomach, though he still appeared to be asleep. Robbe lowered his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Come with me,” said Sander. “I want to show you something.”

“Now?"

Robbe’s eyes were beautiful in moonlight, deepest brown and dark-lashed. Sander wished he’s brought his sketchbook. 

But what he had planned was even better.

“Yes, Robbe—now,” said Sander. He pressed his lips against Robbe’s, who returned it, sleepily. Sander smiled into the kiss. “Come.”

Robbe was wearing only boxers and a big t-shirt. He started to pull on sweatpants.

“You don’t need those, it’s warm out,” said Sander.

Robbe blinked at him slowly. “I’m gonna ignore that.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll go out in just my boxers too,” said Sander. 

Robbe rolled his eyes. Sander laughed, a little too loudly. Robbe’s eyes widened, looking pointedly at the three sleeping boys in the room. 

Sander held up his hands in apology, waiting for Robbe to bundle up. The moment they were out of his room Sander pinned Robbe against the wall, kissing him hungrily.

“Fuck, Sander,” Robbe gasped as soon as Sander released him. “What’s gotten into you?”

Sander just grinned, taking Robbe by the hand and leading him out of the Common Room. They snuck outside the kitchens, to the stairs. Sander guided him all the way to the Astronomy Tower.

Sander took Robbe’s hands and pulled him closer to the edge. He held Robbe from behind, his arms snaking around Robbe’s waist. Robbe leaned back against him, holding onto Sander’s hands.

“Remember that night we spent up here?” said Sander, kissing Robbe’s cheek.

“Of course I remember that night,” Robbe whispered, turning so his lips could meet Sander’s. 

Robbe was shivering. Sander hugged him closer to warm him up. He still felt so hot. He wished he could give his heat to Robbe, all of it.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” said Robbe. “This spot again?”

“No.” Sander kissed Robbe’s cheek again and pulled away. “I wanted to show you _this._ ”

Sander climbed onto the ledge of the wall. He flicked his wand, and high above their heads levitated a rocket-shaped design of its own making. Sander twisted his wand sharply, and it shot into the air.

Sander staggered only a little when they went off, but he managed to catch himself. He heard Robbe let out a shout behind him.

_Fireworks._

Color exploded into the sky. The explosion was extraordinary. Deafening. In the sky the sparklers arranged themselves, just as Sander had designed them. It was Robbe’s face, in perfect likeness, in every color imaginable. He belonged to the sky.

Windows opened all over the castle, banging open to see what the noise was.

Sander turned around to face Robbe, grinning wildly. He held his arms out, exhilarated by his creation. 

But Robbe was not smiling. He looked almost scared.

“Robbe?” Sander said. 

The sky was filled with smoke. Robbe was breathing fast. He sounded like a cornered animal.

“Sander, come down. Please, just come down off the wall. It’s—it’s not safe down there.”

Safe? Of course Sander was safe.

“Please,” Robbe begged, his eyes filling with tears, “please—the professors are coming, I can hear them, just come down, Sander _please—”_

Sander looked down. It dawned on him, slowly. It was true. He was indeed very high off the ground. But he hadn’t felt terror. He hadn’t felt anything like that at all.

Footsteps were thundering up the stairs. Robbe was still begging him to come down, but Sander couldn’t hear him anymore. Blood roared in his ears, drowning everything. Before he knew it, hands were reaching for him, strange hands, a professor’s hands, whose name Sander couldn’t remember. The only face he recognized above him was Hagrid’s, who lifted him into his arms like a child. All around him were strangers, fussing over him. He could barely hear them. He could barely think at all. 

And then there was Robbe. He was so faraway. He looked like a boy left at a harbor, watching a ship leave. Sander stared down at his hands. His fingers flexed. Whose hands were these? Who did this body belong to? Sander could already feel his mind jumping ship.

He sank.

His body was such a strange thing. Sometimes it was a miracle, capable of extraordinary magic. Other times a puppet, helpless to the whims of his mind: that mercurial, terrible work of art. There was no in-between. That was the wondrous, devastating thing about being Sander Driesen. He either walked on water, or he drowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO ok this one hurt a bit to write, ngl. after wtfock's OHN scene i was really excited/scared/nervous to dive into sander's POV again but honestly writing this was super therapeutic in a lot of ways and just made me feel so much closer to his character. god i just really fucking love that boy. 
> 
> ANYWAYS i'll be busy with holiday and family stuff over the next few days so it might take me a little longer to bust out the last chapter (back to my baby robbe for the end). 
> 
> but in the mean time, i'd love to hear what you think of this chapter: your comments really do mean so much to me. thank you all again for all the amazing feedback you've given this fic so far. take care of yourselves over the holidays <3
> 
> tumblr is @aholynight


	5. Chapter Five

“Robbe. Robbe—c’mon. Get up .You need to eat something.”

He felt Jens’ hand fall on his shoulder, shaking him a little. Robbe was ripped out of his stupor. He wasn’t sleeping, but he wasn’t awake either. For the past three days he drifted in a fog, a sleepwalker. During the day he sat outside of the hospital wing, begging Madame Pompfrey to let him in to see Sander, to no avail. At night he sat in the window of his dormitory, and in the distance he envisioned his favorite mirage: Sander’s angel-white hair, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, combat boots trailing through the snow as he left the Forbidden Forest. But it was a hopeless fantasy. Sander was in a narrow bed in the Hospital Wing, under constant surveillance. 

And Robbe was here, in the library, trying to write a Potions essay. Being useless. 

So far all he’d managed was to write his name at the top of the parchment. Sunlight poured thick through the tall windows. A suffocating beam, swirling with dust motes. Robbe wanted to rip off his clothes. He wanted to throw every book in sight. He wanted to scream. Sander would’ve loved that. Sander would’ve joined him.

But Robbe didn’t do any of those things. He was, at the end of the day, still Robbe. He opened his books. He put his head down and forced quill into ink pot and began to work. It was nearly sundown when Jens finally began to bother him about to dinner: a regular occurrence at this point. Robbe was good at working. He was not so good about looking after himself.

“Alright, that’s it,” said Jens, shutting Robbe’s book. “Come on. It’s dinner time.”

“Jens, I have to finish that,” Robbe protested, gritting his teeth. “You can’t just—”

“I can, actually,” said Jens. His tone brooked no argument. “Get up. Don’t think I won’t carry you.”

“You can’t carry me,” said Robbe.

Jens lifted an eyebrow. Robbe rolled his eyes and stood up on his own, begrudgingly. He didn’t want to test the theory.

They went to the Great Hall. Robbe kept his head low, though he could not stop himself from hearing the flood of whispers or the heat of their staring. He sat down at their usual spot. 

Milan came over the minute he saw Robbe take his seat.

“Hey, cutie,” said Milan, with a pitying look. “I heard about what happened. I’m so sorry. If you want, I can secure the bathroom again for you. Maybe you can relax a bit.”

Robbe couldn’t stand the idea of going back to that bathroom. That had been one of the most beautiful nights of Robbe’s life. To go back there, without Sander—it was unthinkable.

He forced down his dinner. Halfway through dessert, a pair of arms came around his shoulders, squeezing tight. 

It was Britt. She hugged him a few seconds longer and then slid into the seat next to him. 

“Robbe, I’m so sorry,” said Britt, taking his hand. “This is all my fault.”

“What?” said Robbe.

“I—I should’ve warned you about him. What he’s like. What he’s _actually_ like.” Britt ran her thumb over the back of Robbe’s hand. 

Robbe just shook his head. Whatever Britt was going to say, he didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to run. He wanted to run straight to the hospital wing. He wanted to hold Sander tight and never let him go.

“He…last year. Last year he woke me up in the middle of the night. He said he had a surprise—”

Robbe closed his eyes. He felt nauseous. 

“He took me to the Great Lake,” she said, with a short, mirthless laugh. Her eyes were faraway and bitter. “He said he wanted to go swimming. In the middle of winter. He’s…” Britt drew a long breath. “He’s not right in the head. He fixates on things, you know? He would draw me all the time, little doodles on napkins and things, everywhere. Maybe you’ve seen him do this, too.”

Robbe started to push himself away from the table. He didn’t want to hear anymore. He didn’t want to listen.

Britt gripped his hand, forcing him to stay. “Robbe, I’m sorry. I wish—I wish it wasn’t like this. But you have to know. You have to know what he really is. Sander…when you’re crazy the way that he is crazy it’s like….nothing’s real with him. I don’t think he’s ever actually loved anything in his entire life.”

Robbe shook his head, over and over. His nails bit into his palms. Britt was wrong. She was wrong. Sander loved him. Sander had looked him like that, he had touched him like that, Sander had said, _he had said_ —

“Look,” said Britt softly. “I know it might not seem like it now, but maybe this is a good thing, in the end. Now you know. You know what he really is.” That bitter look was back on her face. “He can be so charming, can’t he? All his pretty words. All his romantic gestures. It’s so easy to fall in love with him, isn’t it?”

Robbe thought of all the beautiful things Sander had ever said to him. Sander said them without any self-consciousness. He thought of all of Sander’s beautiful paintings. Everything was so planned. The hippogriff ride. He’d even brought mistletoe to the Shrieking Shack.

A lump grew in Robbe’s throat. He choked it back. Britt pulled him into another hug, petting the back of Robbe’s hair. He went limp in her arms, letting himself be pet. 

“He really doesn’t…?” Robbe started to whisper, but he couldn’t get out the words. “He—”

Britt hushed him gently, running her hand over Robbe’s back. Jens put a hand on Robbe’s shoulder, too. 

Quickly, Robbe wiped his cheeks. What an idiot he was. He was the stupidest boy in all of Hogwarts. 

“Come on,” said Jens. “Let’s go. We’re gonna get blackout drunk.”

Robbe let Jens throw an arm around his shoulders and lead him from the Great Hall.

“Fuck,” Jens cursed. “I just realized. We can’t get drunk.”

“Shit,” said Robbe. They had almost made it back to the kitchens. “The Quidditch game.”

“And we’re playing Slytherin too,” said Jens, running his hands dramatically over his face. 

“All the more reason to get shitfaced,” said Robbe darkly, pushing through the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room.

He wanted to take Jens’ stash of fire whiskey and empty every bottle straight into his bloodstream. He wanted to turn off every light. He wanted, finally, to sleep. To turn off his brain.

Jens rubbed his knuckles in Robbe’s hair. Robbe heard himself laugh. Robbe felt undone, and dangerous. He felt like doing something stupid. 

Anything but crying. Especially over _him._

_—_

The game was short, and brutal. Robbe’s head still pounded from all of his bad decisions the night before: seven butter beers in the span of an hour, five bottles of firewhiskey split between he, Aaron, Jens, and Moyo, a desecrated Hufflepuff Common Room, a trip to the kitchens that ended with Robbe sobbing on a house elf. He’d seen a handful of them wearing the little hats Sander had made them for Christmas, and he broke down halfway through eating a chocolate eclair. If he hadn’t been so wasted and miserable, it probably would’ve been pretty hysterical to witness. The boys had carried him back to the dormitory, where he fell asleep face-down on his bed, still wearing his shoes, one of Sander’s t-shirts draped over his face. It was the first thing he smelled when he woke up. Sander always smelled like pine and cedar. Like no matter what time of day it was, he’d just emerged from the forest. A wild thing.

He was too hungover to eat at breakfast. He downed four cups of coffee and braved the cold air. When Madame Hooch blew her whistle for the kickoff, Robbe nearly toppled over his broom.

The worst of it was the Slytherins themselves. Every time they came close enough to Robbe, one of them was shouting something nasty about him and Sander. _How’s your psycho boyfriend?_

And then, just as Robbe thought he might’ve spotted the Snitch and ended this game’s misery for good, the Slytherin Seeker snuck up behind him. It wasn’t a hit that made Robbe fall off his broom. It was the Seeker, close enough to shout right into Robbe’s ear: “ _Too bad he didn’t fall off that tower.”_

Robbe had never been in a fight in his entire life. But in that second he forgot all about the Snitch, about the pounding between his ears, about the hundreds of students and professors in the stands. He just swung. 

He barely managed to knick the Seeker in the chin. The Seeker shouted something filthy at Robbe and began to fly away.

And then Jens sent a bludger in the Seeker’s direction. There was a terrific smash, and he went catapulting down to the ground.

Jens winked at Robbe. Robbe smiled. It felt like his first real smile in days.

Within minutes, the Seeker was back on his broom, zooming after the Snitch. Robbe chased him, but he was far too slow and shaky on his broom.

Slytherin won. 

Robbe fell to his knees the minute he was finally allowed to get off his broom. Jens and Aaron hauled him up. None of them spoke. They dragged themselves back to the castle, listening to the Slytherin’s cruel singing behind them. 

“No psycho boyfriend to comfort you?” said the Slytherin beater, knocking his shoulder into Robbe’s. Robbe couldn’t remember his name: all he knew was that he hated Sander. Sander had knocked him off his broom so many times he’d once spent a week in the hospital wing. 

Jens and Aaron nearly started an actual brawl with him, but Jana and Luca managed to pull them back. Robbe felt too broken to fight. 

“I’m sorry,” said Robbe in a dull monotone, once they made it back inside the Common Room.

Jens waved it off, though Robbe could tell he was upset too. Though they’d depleted almost their entire stash last night, Jens and Moyo were able to charm a few bottles of old mead off a pair of fifth-year girls. 

Robbe took one bottle for himself and drank most of it curled up in the window. Jens and Moyo and Aaron tried to get him to join them for a post-match pity party in the Common Room, but Robbe shook them off. He could barely stand the idea of his own company, let alone anyone else’s. He drank until the edges of the room blurred. He drank until he could close his eyes without seeing Sander’s face, wild as he threw his arms out on that Astronomy Tower, Robbe’s own face glittering in the sky above them in brilliant pyrotechnics, fading quickly into smoke. The night played and replayed like a horror-show loop. He saw Sander’s face, blank and dull-eyed as Hagrid lifted him into the air.

Before Robbe realized what he was doing, he left the dormitory, still clutching the last remnants of his bottle of mead. He ran past the boys in the Common Room, ignoring their shouts. He ran through the castle’s shadowy corridors until he was in front of the hospital wing. 

The doors were locked for the night. Robbe slumped against them, sliding down to the floor. He dragged his sleeve across his face. 

And then the door clicked open. Robbe’s head sprung up. 

It was Senne. They gaped at each other for a moment before getting their bearings. 

“You’re…you’re Robbe, right?” said Senne. His voice was low. 

Robbe nodded. He wished he’d thought to at least put on actual clothes instead of his pajamas. He definitely wished he wasn’t still holding a bottle of mead. He probably looked completely mad. 

“Can I—?” Robbe drew a breath. He really, really did not want to start crying in front of Senne. “Can I see him?” he whispered shakily.

“He’s not—” Senne swallowed hard. “He’s not really responsive right now.”

Robbe nodded. A tear slid down his cheek.

“Fuck, Robbe,” said Senne. He slowly knelt down in front of Robbe. “I’m sorry.”

Robbe shook his head, as if that would stop any more tears. He crossed his arms across his chest, clutching his own shoulders. Senne patted his knee.

“I just really wanted to see him,” Robbe finally managed to whisper. 

“The thing is, there’s really no use, when he’s like this,” said Senne. “It’ll pass in a few days. But right now he’s just out. Mostly he’s sleeping. When he’s awake though he might as well be sleeping too.”

“He’s sleeping now?” Robbe asked.

Senne nodded. 

“Please,” Robbe looked up at Senne. “Please, I won’t wake him up, I promise. I just want to see him.”

“It’s not up to me,” said Senne. “He’s not really ready to see anybody. I think the only reason Madame Pompfrey let me in is because she knew I’d probably just break down the door eventually. Plus, I—” Senne looked at Robbe for a long moment, searchingly, as if trying to decide if Robbe was worthy of whatever he was going to explain next. “I was the one, you know. Who found him last year. In the Shrieking Shack.”

Robbe’s heart stuttered. 

“He’s…he has bipolar disorder, Robbe. You’re Muggleborn, right? Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

_Bipolar._ It definitely rung a bell. He’d probably seen the name flipping through flyers in the wait room at the hospital with his Mama. His Mama had depression. But bipolar disorder was different, from what he could recall. Ups and downs.

“He gets what are called manic episodes. They don’t usually last too long. A week at most—that’s how his are at least. Some times just a few days. Usually something triggers them: a new environment, a new relationship, lots of things can trigger an episode. When the mania’s over, he usually falls into a pretty bad depressive episode. Those sometimes last longer. Weeks, even.”

Robbe thought of that blank look on Sander’s face when he was carried away. He closed his eyes.

“The thing you have to understand though is that most times Sander’s completely fine. The episodes are actually pretty infrequent. There’s medication he can take to help manage them, but he needs a prescription from a Muggle doctor. You see, wizards—they don’t believe in that sort of thing. They don’t get it.”

Robbe’s brow knit. “Britt said—”

Senne’s entire expression changed in an instant. “You talked to Britt?”

Robbe nodded, haltingly.

A muscle jumped in Senne’s jaw. “Britt…look, she treated Sander like shit. After his first episode, she was convinced everything he did was because he was ‘crazy.’ He tried to explain what bipolar meant to her, but she didn’t get it. She never trusted him, never listened…he’d try to break up with her and she’d tell him he wasn’t feeling well, or he didn’t know what he was saying. Eventually—” Senne shook his head bitterly. “Eventually it got so bad between them he just ran away.”

“To the Shrieking Shack,” Robbe whispered.

Senne nodded. Robbe’s chest felt like it was caving in. A lump moved painfully in his throat. All those things Britt had said. Robbe had just _believed_ her. Once again he’d let himself be swayed into believing the worst possible thing about Sander, when all Sander had ever shown him was unconditional love. 

“It was so bad, Robbe,” said Senne, his fists clenching in his lap. “It was so much worse than I thought. And then….we came back. And it was like nothing had ever happened. Britt was right there again.”

For a long moment neither of them said anything.

“I was the one who had to break it off,” said Senne. 

“I didn’t know,” said Robbe. “I didn’t…I didn’t know any of it.”

“He didn’t want you to know,” said Senne. “After what happened with Britt. He doesn’t want you to treat him any differently. All that mess with Britt….it fucked him up bad, Robbe. And he’s…well you know Sander. When he’s good, he’s not just good. He’s…” Senne broke off with a smile. “He’s the best, you know. So full of life. He can be such a little shit, too,” Senne laughed, but the expression on his face was so fond Robbe couldn’t help but smile too. “But truly, I’ve never had a better friend. He puts so much time and thought into the people and things he cares about. If he trusts you—if you’re lucky enough to be in his corner…he’d fight to the death for you.”

Robbe told Senne about Sander’s Christmas presents for him. All the trouble Sander had gone to for him. How above and beyond he went. 

“Yeah, that sounds like Sander,” Senne grinned. He told Robbe stories about Sander saving him over summer holidays. One time, when Senne’s brother Viktor had done something truly unconscionable, Sander had surprised them both at their summer house and planned a prank so elaborate that Viktor never came home for the summer holidays again. 

Then Robbe told him about the seeing Sander kissing Britt in the stables. How Robbe felt so sick afterwards, once he realized that it wasn’t Britt at all, but Sander’s boggart.

Sense looked a little nauseous at this realization too. 

“Are you going to stay with him, Robbe?” Senne asked seriously. 

“Yes,” said Robbe. “Yes, of course. Always. If…if he’ll let me.”

Senne climbed to his feet and held out his hand. Robbe took it gratefully, letting Senne pull him to his feet. 

“When do you think I can see him?” said Robbe.

Senne rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. But try in the morning. Maybe he’ll be ready.”

Robbe nodded and said good night. Before he could leave, Senne put a hand on his shoulder and pulled Robbe in for a hug. He ran a hand over the back of Robbe’s head, and Robbe melted into it. He hadn’t realized just how much he needed to be held.

“You’re a good guy, Robbe,” said Senne, pulling away. “I think you’ll be good for him.”

Robbe smiled—but it was a bitter, painful sort of smile. He felt like all he’d done was fail Sander, over and over again. 

He went back to his dormitory, finally managing to sleep a few hours. As soon as sunlight began to spill through the windows, Robbe bolted awake. He threw on pants and one of Sander’s t-shirts, barely giving himself time to pull on his brown jacket and beanie—it was still January—after all—before running out the door, his shoelaces dragging.

He skid in front of the hospital wing. The doors were mercifully open. Robbe checked every bed, but he felt certain Sander was in the bed at the end, quarantined from the rest with tall curtains. 

Robbe took a deep, steadying breath. He opened the curtains.

The bed was empty.

Robbe’s heart was still pounding with adrenaline. He spun, hearing footsteps behind him, but it was only Madame Pompfrey, whose eyebrows were raised dangerously. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Ijzermans?”

“I—” Robbe stammered. “I was just going to visit—”

“Mr. Driesen left in the middle of the night, I’m afraid.”

“Can he—can he do that?” 

“Well, considering I didn’t chain him to the bed, yes. Technically he can do anything he likes.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Haven’t the slightest clue. I didn’t even hear him leave. If you ask me, that suggests he isn’t very interested in being found. I suggest the best use of your time would be to go to the Great Hall and have some breakfast with the other students, Mr. Ijzermans.”

“Thank you, Madame Pompfrey,” said Robbe, as politely as possible, though he had no intention of going to the Great Hall.

He started running the minute he was out of the hospital wing. He sprinted straight to the Gryffindor Common Room, narrowly dodging crowds of first- and second-years who stared after him, terrified. He nearly upended about seven suits of armor before finally reaching the top of the stairs, where he was confronted finally by the sight of the Fat Lady’s portrait. She looked terribly unimpressed.

He wished he knew how to address her. “Please, uh—miss—” Robbe tried, wincing as the Fat Lady’s eyebrows drew impossibly higher, “I need to get into the Common Room. It’s an emergency.”

“Then you’ll give the password like everybody else.”

“Please,” said Robbe desperately. “Could you at least tell me if Sander Driesen came in last night?”

“Sander who?” said the Fat Lady. “You think I know the name of every single Gryffindor? My portrait has been here for _years,_ you think—”

“He’s a beater on the Quidditch team,” said Robbe, his desperation overriding his need to be polite, “A seventh-year. Always has paint on his clothes. Wears a leather jacket and combat boots. Green eyes. White-blonde hair—"

“Ah, yes,” said the Fat Lady. A slow and decidedly salacious smile spread across her face. “You should have lead with the hair.”

Robbe suppressed a shudder. If Robbe ever got to see Sander again, he would warn him to be very careful around the Fat Lady.

“So have you seen him or not?” Robbe demanded.

“Unfortunately _not_ ,” the Fat Lady sighed wistfully, “ _Him_ I would remember.”

_Fuck._ If Sander hadn’t gotten back to his dormitory, there were a million places he could’ve gone. No one knew the castle better than Sander. He knew every secret passageway, every portrait that opened into a hideaway, every password to every Common Room. He could be anywhere. 

There were obvious places to start. Robbe went to Hagrid’s first, but Sander was nowhere to be seen. He hit the Quidditch pitch next, since he was already on the school grounds. No Sander there either.

But of course, if Sander was at Hogwarts, there was only one place he would be. 

Robbe almost fell face-first into the snow in his haste. He left puddles of melting snow in the castle as he ran up seven flights of stairs, past classrooms in session, past the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team heading to the pitch for practice, past a trio of naughty-looking Gryffindor third-years who were definitely up to no good. He ran until the troll painting was in sight.

The Room of Requirement. 

Robbe stood panting in front of the blank wall and thought with all his might: _art studio, art studio, art studio—_

He opened his eyes. The wall remained blank. He tried every variation he could think of: art gallery, workshop, but nothing was working. 

And then he remembered what Sander had called it, that evening when they curled together on the floor surrounded by Sander’s artwork, Sander’s head on Robbe’s chest. He had looked so fragile, so ethereally beautiful, like a creature from another world. 

It was Sander’s _safe place._

Just like that, the door materialized. Robbe yanked it open.

Silence. Papers fluttered to the floor. Torn pages, crumpled parchment, Robbe’s face half-drawn. 

“Sander?” Robbe called out.

All he heard was his own voice echoed back to him.

The room was empty. Eerily empty. Robbe’s heart was in his throat. He walked further into the room, slowly. His gaze landed on a canvas in the center of the room.

This one was half-finished, too. But that’s not what caught Robbe’s attention.

Scrawled at the bottom was a single word: “Sorry.”

Dread thudded through him. 

_Sorry—_

He couldn’t think. A dozen horrifying images flooded Robbe’s brain, images too terrible to speak of, to put language around. He couldn’t swallow.

_Sorry—_

Robbe ran. If Sander wasn’t here, then there was only one other place he could be.

The castle streamed past him in muddy, nightmarish streaks. He ran to the statue of the One-Eyed Witch, remembering Sander peeking out from behind it, that wicked grin, that devil-may-care look on his face as he demanded the correct password. He ran through the long dark secret passageway that opened into Honeydukes, remembering the glitter in Sander’s impossibly green eyes as he fed Robbe different sweets, the little thrill that ran through Robbe’s stomach every time Sander’s gaze lingered a little too long on his mouth. He ran out of Honeydukes, past The Three Broomsticks, remembering Sander’s hand on his back, guiding him through crowded tables, his beautiful laugh as he and Robbe tried different jelly beans. He ran through the snow, remembering dodging carolers clutching cups of mulled wine, everything tinseled and sparkling for Christmas, everything unmistakably made of magic. He ran through the snow, up the hill. In the distance was a sparkling lake. 

The sight of it nearly took Robbe’s breath away. He could envision that afternoon so easily: how he had felt so free, so safe in Sander’s arms, howling wildly at the sky as the hippogriff flew so close to the lake water splashed into their faces. If Robbe ever had to conjure a patronus, _that_ was the happy memory he would cling to.

He ran over the hill, and the lake disappeared from view. In front of him were miles of snow, and at the end of it, a lonely mansion. Its windows boarded up, broken glass glittering in the snow. A stark, Gothic terror amongst all that pristine snow. No place at all to call home.

Robbe trudged through the snow. The last time he’d been here he’d felt so different. So scared and exhilarated, nervous and hopeful. 

Now he felt only a strange determination as he pushed open the creaking door. He was immediately enveloped into shadow.

A single shard of afternoon light fanned open on the floor, illuminating an ancient-looking velvet armchair. Plumes of dust motes floated in the bare light. 

Just visible over the top of the chair was a white-blonde head.

“Sander,” Robbe breathed.

Sander turned, slowly. The raw, haunted look in his eyes broke Robbe’s heart.

“Get out,” said Sander, his voice cracking. A few pages fluttered to the ground. Robbe saw enough to see they were all drawings of him. “I mean it, Robbe. Leave.”

Robbe didn’t trust himself to speak. Sander got to his feet. And before Robbe knew it, Sander was shoving him, weakly. 

“ _Sander_ —” Robbe reached out, trying to steady him, but Sander was already backing away, clutching the back of his head like he meant to tear out his own hair.

“Get out,” said Sander, shaking his head miserably, “Please. Please just leave—”

Sander had collapsed back into his chair. His shoulders were shaking. Robbe approached him carefully. 

“ _Please—”_ Sander’s voice was muffled in his hands. 

Slowly, Robbe knelt down in front of him. A strange peace entered him. He’d found him. Sander was alive. He wasn’t okay, but he was alive. Robbe couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. 

“Sander,” Robbe whispered. He took Sander’s hand. Reverently, his lips brushed Sander’s knuckles. He wanted to kiss every finger. Every inch of those beautiful hands—hands that had created so much beauty. Hands that had touched Robbe in ways he’d never been touched before. Hands that handled Robbe so carefully. 

“Please don’t make me go,” said Robbe. “I’ll stay here with you. I’ll stay here all night if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t want that,” Sander whispered. His knuckles whitened. He was clenching them so tightly Robbe was certain he was hurting himself.

“I want to be wherever you are,” said Robbe. 

“Well you _shouldn’t_ ,” said Sander, ripping his hand away. There were deep imprints in his palms. “I—” he shook his head, like he couldn’t get out the words. His mouth trembled.

“Sander—”

“You don’t understand, Robbe,” Sander whispered. It was almost a sob. “You don't understand. Everything I touch—everything. It all breaks. Everywhere I go, it doesn’t matter where—all I bring with me is pain. Destruction. I hurt _you_ ,” Sander croaked, “I scared you, I saw your face—”

“I was scared _for you,_ Sander. I was scared you were gonna hurt yourself, that you’d fall and then—”

Sander shook his head, clutching the back of his hair. 

“Sander,” Robbe said softly, gently touching Sander’s arm. “I’ve only ever felt safe with you.”

Sander kept his head bowed, but he let Robbe pull his hands away from his hair and into his lap. Robbe held them in his own. 

“That first Quidditch match, remember? I heard what you did—you tried to save me. You rugby-tackled that bludger so it wouldn’t touch me. I remember the black eye it gave you. Sander, you didn’t even know me.”

Sander drew in a sharp breath. Robbe ran his thumb gently over his knuckles.

“I’ve seen you with those hippogriffs,” said Robbe, even softer. “And with me—when we rode together. You made me feel so safe. No one’s ever made me feel that safe, and that wild, all at once. You treated me so carefully. But you also made me feel so….I don’t know. Alive. Invincible. Like I could do anything. Sander, no one’s ever made me feel _half_ the things I’ve felt with you.”

Robbe threaded their fingers together. Sander still wouldn’t look at him. His cheeks were wet. 

“Please, please, Sander—let me do the same for you.”

Sander shook his head. “You’ll be so much better without me,” he said brokenly, “One day I’ll—I’ll do something crazy and you’ll—you’ll hate me—”

Robbe shook his head, almost laughing in disbelief. Sander still refused to understand. “Sander…my world was so small before you came in it. You know that? I was…” Robbe took a shaky breath. “I was so lonely. And then you came and you saw me— _me—_ and….I’ve never been happier.”

Robbe put two fingers under Sander’s chin, gently lifting it until he could finally see Sander’s eyes. Those surreal, dark-lashed, winter-green eyes. Red-rimmed and glassy and still the most beautiful eyes Robbe had ever seen. 

“You still don’t get it, do you?” said Robbe, shaking his head, “Sander, I love you. Okay? I fucking love you. And I’m not leaving.”

He leaned forward, still kneeling between Sander’s feet on the dusty floor, and kissed him. Sander’s mouth was pliant against his, barely kissing back, just breathing against him.

Then Robbe felt Sander’s hands grip the back of his jacket, like he would fall if he didn’t let go of Robbe. Robbe kissed Sander’s bottom lip. Sander’s mouth parted, and Robbe kissed him deeper this time, until he felt Sander finally begin to kiss him back.

Sander was crying. He was shaking so hard he was almost falling. Robbe caught him as Sander fell slack against him, cradling him on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, stroking the back of Sander’s hair as he sobbed into Robbe’s shoulder. 

A tear slipped down Robbe’s cheek. His chest was a ruin. It was such a strange feeling—his heart felt so full for this boy, this boy that he loved. But it broke for him, too.

“I’m so happy I found you,” Robbe whispered, his lips brushing Sander’s cheek, the top of his head, burying his face in Sander’s angel-white hair. “And I’m never letting you go.”

—

They slept all day. Jens and the boys left them the entire dormitory, so he and Sander could have some privacy. Sander would never say it, but Robbe knew how much it wounded him, having others see him like this. But Robbe felt honored by it, too: honored because Sander finally trusted Robbe enough to let him see the other phase of his lunar cycle, the boy he became when he could no longer be the brightest, shiniest thing in the room. 

Sander’s head never left Robbe’s chest. His nose nestled into the hollow of Robbe’s collarbone. Robbe carded his fingers gently through Sander’s hair, just breathing him in. When Sander finally woke up, Robbe dashed to the kitchens to knick some food for them. Once the house elves learned the food was for Sander, they sent Robbe back to his dormitory practically staggering under the weight of all the food they’d given him. 

Sander didn’t feel like eating much, but Robbe convinced him to take at least a little bit. Once he’d finished his plate and a glass of water, he fell right back to sleep. Robbe pressed against his back, kissing the nape of Sander’s neck, pressing his lips against his shoulder, smiling with relief when he felt Sander snuggle back against him. He whispered every sweet-nothing he could think of until he finally heard the rhythm of Sander’s breathing even out. 

They both woke up early, a few minutes before sunrise. Pearly blue night crept through the window, enough to see that the other boys had finally made it to bed, though they were all sound asleep.

Sander turned over to nestle his head in Robbe’s shoulder again. Robbe wrapped his arms around Sander’s shoulders, holding him tight. He kissed his forehead sleepily. 

“You’re still here,” Sander whispered.

“Always,” said Robbe. 

Something melancholy moved in Sander’s eyes. He hooked a finger in the gold chain around Robbe’s neck, playing with it gently.

“What’re you thinking about?” said Robbe.

Sander’s throat worked. His eyelashes were dark against his cheek. “Just that I love you. That’s all.”

Robbe lifted Sander’s chin to kiss him. “I love you, too,” he whispered. 

The stayed in bed again for most of the day, napping occasionally, though this time Sander mostly stayed awake. Robbe watched Sander wander around their dormitory, picking up all of Robbe’s little things and studying them carefully—not that Robbe had much. They read from Robbe’s books in funny voices and people-watched out the window. At lunch they ate from their kitchen stash, and in the evening they watched the sunset, curled together in Robbe’s spot by the window. Sander’s arms were looped around Robbe’s shoulders. Robbe leaned back against him, sighing happily when he felt Sander’s lips in his hair. Robbe brought Sander’s hands to his mouth and made do on his promise to kiss every inch of them. Sander was starting to kiss down Robbe’s neck when the door crashed open and the boys tumbled inside, fresh from dinner in the Great Hall. Together they played some bastardized version of Wizard’s Chess on the dormitory floor—Sander, somehow, managed to beat all of them—and when it was bedtime, none of the boys blinked an eye when Sander crawled into Robbe’s bed again. 

The next day they managed to finally leave the dormitory. Sander even went to class. In the afternoon he and Robbe went to visit Hagrid, who was furious that they hadn’t come sooner. At dinner time, to Robbe’s surprise, Sander said he felt ready to go to the Great Hall. 

“I just want everything to feel normal again,” said Sander, his arms looped around Robbe’s waist, his head on his shoulder.

“Whatever you want,” Robbe murmured, kissing his head. 

They slipped into the Great Hall as quietly as they could. There was no avoiding Senne, of course, who was also pretty incensed that Sander hadn’t come to see him earlier, but his sour mood evaporated the minute Sander smiled at him. Robbe couldn’t help but laugh. As it turned out, everyone was as helpless against Sander’s smile as Robbe was.

—

Sander and Robbe curled into each other, practically sharing the same coat. The wind was bracing against their faces. Robbe, Sander, Jens, Moyo, and Aaron each had surreptitious looking water bottles: Sander had done a complicated bit of magic to make their fire whiskey look like plain water, and they were sipping it to keep warm. 

Three Quidditch players flew past them, too fast to see who they were. It was a Ravenclaw/Slytherin match, so they weren’t too invested, but they still cheered loud for Ravenclaw any chance they got. After the way Slytherin had treated Robbe in the last game—the boys had spared Sander some of the nastier details, though Robbe knew Sander well enough to know he had already masterminded some devilish revenge plot—no one wanted to see another Slytherin win. 

“I’m tired of standing,” Robbe whined, “And I’m cold.”

“Sit,” Sander demanded, patting his knee. 

Robbe sat in Sander’s lap, leaning against him, accepting the sip of fire whiskey Sander offered him. Sander rubbed Robbe’s arms, trying to warm him up.

“Better?” Sander whispered, his breath hot against Robbe’s ear. He fought back a shiver. He was happy to see Sander seemed to be getting his libido back. 

“ _Oi_ —you’re still in public,” Jens chided, slapping Robbe’s knee, just as Sander began to kiss down his neck.

“It’s him—not me!” Robbe protested.

“Aw, look, he’s so _innocent,_ isn’t he?” Sander teased.

“Why doesn’t anyone ever let me sit on their lap?” Aaron wondered aloud. 

This distracted the boys enough that they finally stopped looking at Sander and Robbe, who resumed their kissing. 

Afterwards, there was a party in the Three Broomsticks: Ravenclaw was celebrating their window, and nearly all of the sixth- and seventh-years from Hufflepuff and Gryffindor had joined the party. 

Robbe sat in the corner with the boys, half-listening to whatever stupid song Jens and Moyo were making up, half-admiring his boyfriend. Sander was talking animatedly to Senne and Luka, who were laughing raucously at whatever story he was telling. Senne clapped Sander on the shoulder and knocked their drinks together: they were drinking some dangerous-looking shot that looked like blue fire. The three of them knocked them back all at once and slammed them down, Senne and Sander dissolving into laughter again at the sour face Luka made when he swallowed his.

Sander’s eyes met Robbe’s across the room. Robbe winked at him. Sander grinned almost shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked pink-cheeked and healthy in the warm glow of the pub. Robbe rested his cheek on his fist, nakedly admiring how pretty Sander looked. It was almost unfair. 

After a few minutes, Sander bullied his way through the crowd and pulled Robbe out of his seat.

“Come on,” he whispered, “I’m tired of looking at you from across the room. I need a closer look.”

“But you see me all the time,” Robbe laughed, allowing Sander to pull him into a more private corner.

“Never enough,” said Sander, kissing him the moment Robbe’s back hit the wall. His fingers snuck under Robbe’s shirt. 

“Hold on,” said Robbe. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a flower: it changed colors, gorgeous and iridescent, just like the ones Sander had left for him in the hospital wing all those weeks ago, when Robbe was just a boy who fell of his broom, and Sander was the guy who’d tried to save him.

He tucked the flower behind Sander’s ear. “I figured out how you did it. The flower trick.”

“Oh, it’s not that difficult,” said Sander, with a crooked, self-deprecating sort of smile. “Any first-year could.”

“No,” said Robbe, shaking his head. “Everything you touch you make beautiful, you know?”

Sander huffed a laugh through his nose. “Not you. You were already beautiful.”

Robbe wanted to believe that. Maybe one day he would. All he knew was that when Sander said things like this to him, he got the same feeling he did that first morning in King’s Cross station, when he slipped through Platform 9 3/4 and was confronted with the reality of magic for the first time. 

“Should we leave, do you think?” Robbe asked. “While everyone’s here? We have an entire dorm to ourselves, you know.”

Sander rubbed his thumb against Robbe’s bottom lip. The corner of his own mouth lifted. “No, it’s okay.”

“It’s not too much?” Robbe asked. “All these people here?”

“I feel fine, as long as you’re here,” said Sander. “Besides. We have so much time ahead of us, you know? We have a whole lifetime to spend together.”

“You’re right,” said Robbe. “Let’s enjoy right now. This very minute.”

“What should we do this minute?” said Sander, running his fingers through Robbe’s hair, teasing. “Can you think of anything?”

“Kiss me,” said Robbe. Sander’s lips met his, as electrifying as the first time.

As they kissed against the wall of the Three Broomsticks, surrounded by their friends, by laughter and clinking glass and the unmistakeable evidence of magic, Robbe thought again to that morning at King’s Cross. But now he thought about how much his relationship to magic had changed since that day. Robbe used to think that magic existed to make life easier. That was the magic he marveled at: pots that cleaned themselves, brooms that flew, fires that started at the flick of a wand. That was magic, yes, but it was no longer that sort of magic that amazed him. What magic taught him was that the world was enormous, so enormous that there was no chance he’d see it all. The idea of that enormity used to make Robbe feel small. But now, for the first time in his life, he felt like he was a part of it. Now he had Sander, who was an entire planet of life all his own. Sander, who looked at Robbe, and saw an entire cosmos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody! i just want to say again thank you all so much for the amazing response to this fic. truly your feedback has meant so much to me, and i've honestly had such a fun time writing this story for you all <3 hopefully yall enjoy the last chapter. please let me know what you think xx 
> 
> tumblr is @aholynight (yes, i am still crying about these precious babies DAILY honestly WHEN will they leave me alone)
> 
> tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/post/189921235103/this-rough-magic-55-robbe-x-sander) if you'd like to share xx


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